Valentine Encounter
by Kyra4
Summary: READ ME! Draco and Hermione are Head Boy & Girl, but do NOT share a common room and see as little of each other as possible til a fateful encounter on Valentine's night leads to a gradual, reluctant romance. Starts 7th year goes postHogwarts. NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1: The Encounter

Disclaimer: Harry Potter & Co belong to JK Rowling. None of the characters or places mentioned belong to me, only the plot.  
  
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Had he known in advance the degree to which his life would change as a result of turning that corner, it is entirely possible that Draco would have spun around right then and headed straight back to the Slytherin common room.  
  
But he had no idea what was in store for him; no concept of the grief, and ultimately the joy, that would come to pass as a result of taking that bend in the corridor, and the Slytherin common room was the last place in all of Hogwarts he wanted to be just then. Even Gryffindor Tower looked appealing in comparison. Well, actually, no. Given a choice between the two, he would return to his own kind before setting foot in Gryffindor territory. But given his hatred of that particular House, and theirs of him, that wasn't saying much. The party that Pansy had been busily organizing for the past month was now in full swing, and Draco wasn't feeling sociable. He had done his time, putting in an appearance as was expected of him- he was, after all, Head Boy, not to mention Slytherin Quidditch captain- but had slipped out the moment he had felt he was no longer the center of attention.  
  
Which meant that he had spent considerably more time drinking bland punch and fending off Pansy's advances than he would have liked. Because he _was_ the center of most Slytherins' attention. Especially now as Head Boy, but even before his seventh year he had always been something of a celebrity in Slytherin House, for his name, for his wealth, for his family's privileged position within the Dark Lord's innermost circle, for his skill at Quidditch- (although he had yet to beat Potter to the golden snitch, he had secured many a victory for Slytherin over the years against Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff)- and, among his female housemates, for his appearance.  
  
He was, like his nemesis Harry Potter, built relatively small and light- a requirement in a good seeker- but his lean body had a wiry sort of strength all the same, and with his shock of silver hair and eerie, pale eyes, he certainly turned heads. He was not a bronzed god by any stretch of the imagination, but his looks were compelling, in their own way. And on those rare- exceedingly rare- occasions when he smiled...not smirked, which he did a dozen times a day, but actually smiled, which he had done perhaps a dozen times in all his years at Hogwarts- the effect was, simply put, dazzling.  
  
He was not smiling now. He was very nearly snarling, as a matter of fact, as he brooded over Pansy's latest brazen attempts at seduction. Bad enough he was expected by his family to marry her shortly after graduation- her pedigree was, after all, impeccable- he would not consent to jumpstart the lifetime of suffering that he knew lay in store by attaching himself to her now. Their marriage would be an arranged one and although he would submit to it, he refused to lend it any false validation by actually dating her beforehand. The fact that he was under strict orders from his father to escort her to every school ball was bad enough. Spending time with her voluntarily was out of the question.  
  
He wouldn't.  
  
Period.  
  
Ugh. Simpering, pug-faced little-  
  
What was that?  
  
He stopped for a moment, head cocked to one side, listening. From up ahead, around a bend in the corridor, came the sound of a door slamming open, then shut again- the potions lab?- and then footsteps- at least two pairs, racing away down the hall, accompanied by low sniggers and the occasional barely stifled guffaw. Crabbe and Goyle, perhaps? He hadn't seen them at the party, come to think of it.  
  
He stayed where he was a moment longer, until the sounds had faded into nothing, grateful that he had missed them, whoever they were, especially if they were in fact Crabbe and Goyle. Though it was undeniably useful at times to have a pair of large and very devoted goons to do one's every bidding, hanging out with those two was not something Draco ever did for fun.  
  
God, but they were stupid.  
  
And what had they been doing in an empty classroom well after curfew, anyway? Committing petty acts of vandalism, probably, that he would inevitably have to cover up for them by blaming Peeves because they themselves were too dumb to think of shunting the blame onto anyone else. It had happened before. And whose classroom had the idiots decided to vandalize? Why, that of their very own Head of House, of course. Honestly, if this was how they got their kicks, why in the hell couldn't they target McGonagall, or that moron Trelawney?  
  
Oh right, because they were stupid.  
  
He shook his head in exasperation. What had he ever done to deserve to be saddled with such idiots for "friends"? There wasn't another member of Slytherin House who could come close to matching his intellect, and Draco, who harbored no false modesty on this or any other account, knew it. And since he was unwilling to approach the members of any other House, intelligent conversation was a luxury he had long ago given up hoping for. His best means of escape from his intellectually challenged Housemates was to sneak off to the library and lose himself in a good book every now and again. It was where he was headed at the moment, as a matter of fact, being reasonably sure, since it was after hours, that it would be deserted- which was just the way he liked it.  
  
On this of all nights, he severely doubted that anyone was studying.  
  
These were the thoughts that were running through his mind as he turned the corner and entered the stretch of corridor that housed the potions lab.  
  
And stopped short, his eyes suddenly riveted on the classroom door.  
  
What he saw next would, though he little guessed it at the time, change his life.  
  
As he watched, the door, which had previously been shut by whoever he had heard exiting the room, swung open once more, and a girl half-stumbled, half-fell through it into the hallway.  
  
Not just any girl, either.  
  
The Head Girl.  
  
Granger.  
  
As Draco watched, flabbergasted, she very nearly fell to the floor, but managed to catch hold of the door jamb and steady herself against it. She then very carefully edged around the doorway until her back was pressed to the stone wall of the corridor, leaning heavily against it.  
  
She looked like hell. Her uniform was rumpled, her hair disheveled, a large bruise already beginning to form on one cheek, a bright trickle of blood escaping the corner of her mouth. Both her arms were wrapped tightly, protectively, about her midsection, and her breath was coming in shallow, ragged little gasps.  
  
Draco stared for a long moment, as she stood there, propped against the wall, with her eyes closed. Then comprehension dawned in him, and a forcible "huh" of air was expelled from his lungs as he realized exactly what this meant.  
  
Crabbe and Goyle- he was now sure it had been them- had just roughed up the Head Girl. Jesus Christ. They were ten times more stupid than he had ever given them credit for. They would be expelled for this! How the hell was he going to cover this up?  
  
And come to think of it, did he even want to?  
  
His first instinct was usually to protect his own- well, to protect himself and then his own- it always had been. But this- the idea of a pair of brutes the size of Crabbe and Goyle cornering and beating up a girl- even Granger- something about it repulsed him. It was just...low. Though golden boy Potter may not have believed it, Draco did follow a moral code of sorts, and hitting girls wasn't part of it. Playing rough at Quidditch was one thing; it was part of the game; girls who joined Quidditch teams knew what they were signing up for, but this- two behemoths like Crabbe and Goyle deliberately teaming up on a single, and rather petite, girl- it was plain wrong. No matter who she was.  
  
But his reflections were cut short as Hermione's eyes flew open, startled. She had heard his exhalation a second ago. Staring at him down the length of corridor that separated them, she whispered something that could have been, "Oh, great. You." He wasn't entirely sure, though- her words were so soft.  
  
Then her legs gave way and she slid down the wall to land hard, in a sitting position, at its base, visibly clamping down on a cry of pain. She dropped her head forward, but not before Draco saw a pair of tears streak down her cheeks.  
  
He approached and crouched beside her.  
  
"Granger."  
  
"Sod...off. Malfoy." She didn't look up.  
  
He had to fight the impulse to do exactly that- to leave the damned mudblood sitting there and go on his way, forget he'd ever seen this. He didn't need this complication in his life. This wasn't his problem.  
  
Except that it was. She was Head Girl and he was Head Boy, and his very own goddamned pet goons were involved, and so this _was_ his problem. Oh, yes.  
  
"Granger," he repeated, in a tightly controlled voice, and then, when she finally, reluctantly, raised her eyes to meet his, "what happened?"  
  
She said nothing, just glared at him. Or tried to, anyway. Her expression was too full of pain to be even remotely threatening.  
  
He tried again. "Was it Crabbe and Goyle?" He already knew the answer to this- just wanted it confirmed.  
  
She looked down and away. "Yes," she whispered.  
  
A new and deeply disturbing thought occurred to him then, as he looked her over hard, noting her badly rumpled, and in places torn, clothing. "Granger, did they- they didn't-?"  
  
"God, _no_!" she cried, catching his meaning, with a vehemence he had not expected. She turned back toward him, and her face was contorted with disgust. "I'd rather die!"  
  
"Well, what in the bloody hell were you doing down here alone?!" he exploded, frustrated by everything about this situation, not least of all the conflicting feelings it was arousing within him. He wasn't supposed to be concerned about the mudblood, goddamn it all to hell! His only concern was supposed to be how to smooth this over and save the worthless hides of his two Housemates. He ought to be preparing to Obliviate the girl right now. And yet- he couldn't shake the feeling that Crabbe and Goyle had just gone too far this time. Too damn far by half. "You bloody well know this is unfriendly territory, Granger," he continued angrily.  
  
"It's not like I came to pay a social call," she ground out. "I was patrolling."  
  
"Patrolling," he echoed in disbelief. "By yourself? Where the hell is your partner? Where's Weasley?"  
  
Every Friday and Saturday night the prefects took it in turns to patrol the halls of the school after curfew, and the Head Boy and Girl were not exempt from this less than popular duty. But always, a pair of prefects, usually from the same House and year, patrolled together. It was more than custom; it was a rule. Meant to prevent just such an occurrence as this. Why on earth had Granger been patrolling alone tonight?  
  
"It's Valentine's Day," she whispered, bitterness unmistakable in her voice. "Ron decided he had better things to do."  
  
For a moment, all Draco could do was stare at her, aghast. "But-" he finally managed, "but Weasley's meant to be one of your best friends. I wouldn't send Pansy patrolling on her own, and I don't even _like_-"  
  
He caught himself abruptly, shutting his mouth with a snap. He had very nearly said too much.  
  
"Why didn't Weasley find himself a replacement, then?" he asked a moment later, once he had composed himself.  
  
"Everyone had plans tonight, Malfoy. Everyone." Hermione's tone was weary.  
  
"Everyone but you," Draco corrected, unable to resist a little jab, even now.  
  
There was that glare again.  
  
"I don't notice any hot date on _your_ arm," she snapped.  
  
"I had my date in by curfew," Draco lied smoothly. "I'm just a gentleman that way."  
  
At the word gentleman, Hermione gave a derisive snort- but the sound turned into a pained gasp and she folded herself over, head lowering to her updrawn knees, arms still wrapped tightly about herself, protectively hugging her body.  
  
"Granger, where does it hurt?"  
  
No answer.  
  
He sighed. "Come on, I'll get you to Pomfrey. I am Head Boy; I don't suppose I have a choice in the matter."  
  
Her head flew up at this, and he was surprised to see the panic in her eyes. "Don't you dare, Malfoy!" she exclaimed. "I can't go there!"  
  
"What the hell are you on about? Look at you, Granger, you're clearly hurt. Not that I care, but as Head Boy I have a duty-"  
  
"Fuck you and your duty," she said, very clearly, and- he couldn't help it- his jaw literally dropped in astonishment. He had never dreamed she had such language in her. Not prissy little Granger. Good Lord, what next?  
  
"I'm not going to the hospital wing," she repeated flatly. "Don't you get it, Malfoy? Patrolling alone is against the rules. I'd get in trouble for doing it, and Ron would get in worse trouble for letting me. And Harry would be furious with Ron, and...oh, it would be a mess! I could lose my badge for this, don't you see? I couldn't bear that! And...God, why am I telling you this?" Horror dawned on her features. "Why am I confiding in the one person who would _love_ to see that happen?" More tears escaped her eyes and she dropped her head onto her knees again, muttering, "stupid, stupid, stupid..."  
  
Draco thought fast. Here was the means to cover this whole ugly little incident up- she was offering it to him on a silver platter!  
  
"Calm down, Granger," he said at length, "I won't turn you in against your will. After all, I have my own reasons for wanting this to stay quiet."  
  
"You mean so you can protect those nightmares you call friends," she said, her voice muffled, head still down.  
  
"Like you wouldn't do the same for Potter and Weasley," he retorted. "You just said a minute ago that you don't want Weasley to get in trouble over this- and in my opinion, he bloody well _should_ get in trouble! This is his entire fault!"  
  
"It's _not_ his entire fault!" she cried. "He's not the one who- who- pulled me into an empty classroom and-" she trailed off, seemingly unable, or perhaps unwilling, to articulate what she had been through. "Anyway," she said a moment later, "it's different. I wouldn't protect Harry and Ron if they did something like this. Not even to you."  
  
"Well, thanks, Granger," Draco drawled. "I'm touched." So saying, he got to his feet, then bent, caught her under the arms, and, without a further word, hauled her up as well. He had been about to go so far as to offer to walk her halfway back to Gryffindor Tower- an extraordinary concession for him to make, when you got right down to it- but what happened next caught him completely off-guard.  
  
Apparently, yanking her up like that had caused further damage to her injuries, for she cried out again, as she had when she'd hit the floor earlier, and this time she didn't bother- or was not able- to stifle her cry. And then her legs buckled and she collapsed forward, right into him, her head crashing to his shoulder as she began to slide inexorably floorward once more.  
  
"_Shit_, Granger," he exclaimed, and raised both arms, catching her about the waist, instinctively pulling her hard against him as a means of halting her fall. She cried out again, muffled this time by the fabric of his shirt. Realizing that there was no way she was going to stand on her own, he eased her slowly back down to the floor, laying her flat on her back, not consciously aware of the way in which he was cushioning her head with his hand, keeping it from the cold, hard flagstones.  
  
"Granger," he muttered, bending close over her- her eyes were pressed tightly shut, her face taut with pain, her arms still wrapped about herself, even now- "what the _fuck_-?"  
  
She opened her eyes, and took a moment to focus on him. Her breath was coming in rapid little pants, so shallow that he wondered if any air were actually reaching her lungs at all.  
  
"Muh-Mal-foy," she gasped out, seemingly with great effort, "huh-hurts to b- bree-heathe."  
  
"Shitshitshit," Draco muttered under his breath. "Oh, you fucking idiots, what did you do?" Returning his attention to Hermione, he slipped his hand gently out from beneath her head and caught her by the chin, compelling her to maintain eye contact. "Granger," he said, "Even though it goes against the best interests of my own House, I am going to suggest- strongly- that you reconsider going to the hospital wing. I can levitate you there. In case you haven't noticed, this is _fucking serious_."  
  
Still, though apparently barely conscious, she shook her head to the best of her ability, what with his hand restraining her. "No," she whispered. "Malfoy. No."  
  
"You're going to have to let me see the damage, then."  
  
Her eyes widened as she realized what this entailed, and she hugged herself harder, her arms tightening about her ribcage, just below the swell of her breasts.  
  
Draco felt his frustration returning. "What do you think, Granger, that you can _wish_ this injury away? Someone has to look, and if you still refuse to see Pomfrey, then it's gotta be me."  
  
She closed her eyes again, tears escaping their corners to streak down the sides of her face and lose themselves in the tumult of her hair.  
  
"It has to be done," Draco said, as much to himself as to her, and gently but firmly pried her arms away from her body. Holding them pressed to the floor on either side of her, he asked, "can I trust you to keep your arms out of my way, or would you prefer I immobilized you?"  
  
Her eyes opened again, fear and mistrust clearly evident in their dark depths. "Don't...you...dare," she managed between labored breaths.  
  
He shrugged. "Have it your way, Granger, but keep still." So saying, he grasped the hem of her white blouse (Who the hell wore their uniform on a Saturday night? Patrolling or not- come on! Not surprising she was a dateless wonder on Valentine's Day) and pushed it up, revealing her slim body, revealing-  
  
"Oh, Jesus Christ," he murmured sickly.  
  
He had thought before that Crabbe and Goyle just might have gone too far this time- now, seeing the extent of the injury they had caused, he was sure of it. It occurred to him for the first time that she literally could have _died_- in fact, from the look of it, she still might. And what the fuck would happen to him if she died in his care? He had a brief, yet intense vision of himself carrying Granger's dead body into the infirmary, and the reaction that would provoke. No way in hell anyone would believe he had tried to help her. He would be blamed. He would be expelled. He would be sent to fucking Azkaban! It was not only Crabbe and Goyle's asses that were on the line, he realized; his own was, now, as well.  
  
Oh, those two bastards would have hell to pay for this.  
  
And come to think of it, so would Weasley.  
  
Her entire ribcage was beginning to bruise; a massive, ugly, spreading blot against her fair skin, painful just to look at. Clearly she had multiple broken ribs; that accounted for her breathing difficulties as well. He could see one of the breaks- a jagged edge of bone pushing up against her skin. If one of those fragments should have punctured her lung....  
  
He felt his stomach turn over.  
  
He tore his eyes away from her battered body and raised them once again to her face. She was fighting unconsciousness, her eyes slipping nearly closed, then coming open again with a start, like a young child up way past her bedtime, fighting sleep.  
  
"Granger," he said, leaning down so that their noses nearly touched, wanting to catch her attention, surprised at the unsteady quality of his own voice.  
  
"Mal...foy." Oh, yeah, she was fighting. Fighting hard to stay awake, alert.  
  
"This is gonna hurt. I have to find you something to hold on to." He looked about himself in mounting agitation- it wasn't desperation, it wasn't- or if it was, it was due entirely to the fact that if she died, he was well and truly fucked. It sure as hell wasn't that he was worried about a fucking mudblood- but before he could find anything to place in her hands, he felt her grip his wrist, hard.  
  
"You," she whispered hoarsely. "Hold...onto you."  
  
He blinked down at her in astonishment. So, apparently she was no longer thinking clearly.  
  
"All right, then," he said, at a loss. "If that's what you want, Granger." He pulled his wrist free, then clasped her hand, twining his fingers tightly through hers. With his other hand, he fumbled for his wand and placed the tip of it lightly against the break he could see. What little breath she had caught in her throat, and her other hand- the one he wasn't holding- fisted in the material of her skirt.  
  
"Count of three," he murmured. "One...two..." He never said "three", just quickly muttered the words of the healing spell. There was a crack, surprisingly loud in the deserted corridor, as the bone set itself. The protrusion vanished, leaving her skin smooth, though still badly bruised. When he looked once more to her face he saw that she had quietly blacked out, no doubt a result of the pain caused by setting her rib.  
  
That was probably better for both of them, he decided. As long as he could get her to wake up again, when the time was right.  
  
In the mean time, he had a lot more work to do. He passed his wand slowly back and forth over her body, having instructed it to alert him with a small shower of cool green sparks whenever it detected significant damage. In this way he discovered one more broken rib, and two cracked. Once those had been attended to, her breathing became a lot easier, though she did not regain consciousness.  
  
The major damage now mended, be began the painstaking process of healing her extensive bruising. By the time he had finished and pulled her shirt back down, the bruises that covered her midsection had faded to the yellow of weeks-old injuries, and Draco was exhausted. He was pretty sure she would still have a dull ache to contend with, but as far as he was concerned, she could bloody well live with that. It could serve as a reminder of just how stupid she had been to patrol Slytherin territory alone. He deliberately left the bruise on her face, and her cut lip, alone as well. Let her heal them herself if she had the inclination- and the talent- to do so. He rather hoped that she would not.  
  
He knew that she wanted to keep this incident from Potter and Weasley, but personally he thought they ought to know. Weasley didn't deserve to live in blissful ignorance of the damage his irresponsibility had caused. He ought to be forced to confront the fact that he had nearly cost one of his best friends her life. Abandoning his duties as a prefect was bad enough- Granger had expressed concern that she might lose her badge over this, but in Draco's opinion, it was Weasley who should lose his. Ever since fifth year, Draco had taken his own prefect duties very seriously. Sure, at times he used his status to his advantage and lorded it over the other students- what kind of Slytherin would he be if he didn't?- but shirk his duties? Never.  
  
So, bad enough that Weasley had abandoned his duties as a prefect. But worse that he had abandoned his duties as a friend. This Draco just didn't understand. There it was again; that Slytherin instinct to protect one's own kicking in. Whatever else the other Houses might say about the Slytherins, no one could accuse them of not sticking together. Just look at Snape for an example of the fierce loyalty and protectiveness members of this particular House felt for one another. Draco smirked a little at the thought. Sure the other students bitched and moaned and called it blatant favoritism. Let them. The Slytherins _had_ to stand united- what alternative was there when three fourths of the school- and that included the faculty- loathed them?  
  
Draco would have gone out on a limb to protect just about any member of his House, and that went double for his fellow seventh years, whom he had known longest and best. Shit, that was what he was doing right now, was it not? Risking his own ass to heal Granger, so that the faculty would never know what (_those fucking morons_!) Crabbe and Goyle had done tonight. And the thing was, he didn't really even consider Crabbe and Goyle friends. Just...associates who came in handy sometimes. Come to think of it, he didn't really consider any of his Slytherin yearmates to be friends (a true friend would have to be able to keep up with him intellectually, and none of them could), but even so, as he had told Granger earlier, he would not have sent any one of them patrolling in enemy territory alone. So he simply couldn't imagine having a real friend- a friend one actually loved- and it did appear, even from his hostile outsider's perspective, that the members of the golden trio loved each other- and then being this careless with her. Sending her into danger- and if Weasley honestly hadn't seen the danger, then he was as stupid and blind as he was poor and ugly- just so that he could spend an evening snogging some little tart. It wasn't even as if Weasel-boy had a serious girlfriend. Draco would have made it his business to know if he had- more ammunition for his taunts.  
  
He shook his head wearily. Gryffindors didn't make any sense to him. No sense at all.  
  
But speaking of Gryffindors, there was now the question of what to do with this particular specimen. Taking her back to his own room was out of the question, of course. Being Head Boy, he did have a private room, but he would have to carry her right through the Slytherin common room to get there. The common room in which Pansy's Valentine party was no doubt still going full swing. Not that he would have consented to having a mudblood in his room anyway, come to think of it. No, his room was definitely not an option. And they had already determined that the hospital wing was not an option either.  
  
All right, her room then? No, it was on the other end of the school and up about a hundred flights of stairs. Too bloody far; the risk of encountering someone along the way was too great. How the hell would he explain himself then? Could he wake her up and send her on her way, back to Gryffindor Tower alone? That way, even if she encountered an adult, she could simply, and truthfully, state that she was returning from her rounds- if they checked the roster, they would see that she was, indeed, signed up for tonight. They would also see that Weasley was signed up for tonight, and then he would get in trouble for shirking his duty, which, Draco thought vehemently, would be a good thing altogether.  
  
But no...somehow he just couldn't reconcile himself to setting her loose in the school with her injuries so fresh. Having been the one to heal her, he couldn't help feeling a certain sense of responsibility for her now. He was sure it would wear off relatively quickly, but for tonight- just for tonight- he would not abandon her as her so-called friends had done. Especially since Crabbe and Goyle were still out there somewhere causing God only knew what kind of mischief. They could be anywhere on the school grounds. If she were to encounter them again....  
  
It didn't bear thinking about.  
  
So where the hell could he take her? They couldn't stay here in the middle of a drafty dungeon corridor. In fact, they had already been out here in the hallway, exposed, for far too long. It was just sheer luck that no one had come along- Crabbe and Goyle returning to the Slytherin dorms, Snape, Filch or his thrice-damned cat- he couldn't expect luck like that to hold out much longer. But what to do?  
  
He had been sitting beside Hermione's still form, his head dropped forward into his hands, thinking hard. He raised his head now, and the first thing his eyes lit upon was the open doorway of the potions lab, the same doorway he had watched the Head Girl stumble through, not five feet away.  
  
It would do, he decided. For one night, it would do. He would get her inside and shut the door after them, and the odds of them being found by anyone in there were slim. It wouldn't be comfortable, but it would be safe. Too bad the room of requirement was nearly as far away as Gryffindor Tower, he thought regretfully, as he gathered her into his arms and stood. It would only occur to him later- much later- that he had never even considered simply levitating her through the door. He'd been too busy brooding over the fact that a room which is supposed to provide whatever a person requires at a given time ought not to be stationary; if it were truly a room of requirement, it ought to be able to move about the school so that in a time of desperate need like this, it could have come to him. His mind thus engaged, he had simply picked her up as though it were the most natural thing in the world.  
  
He carried her through the door into the dim, shadowy room beyond and with a muttered spell (the seventh years had been practicing wandless magic recently), caused the door to slam shut and lock behind them. 


	2. Chapter 2: The Morning After

"God, what now?" Draco muttered groggily, as he was suddenly and violently wrenched from sleep- if you could even call it that.  
  
Really, it hardly passed for sleep at all; more of an uncomfortable sort of doze on the cold stone floor of the dungeon classroom. He sat up slowly, blearily; his entire body felt cramped from lying in the same position for so long, curled up against the damp chill that pervaded the room. One hand went to the back of his neck, which felt particularly sore. He winced as he turned his head this way and that.  
  
Fucking Crabbe and Goyle. This was their entire fucking fault. And Weasley, damn his freckled hide straight to hell. Were they ever going to get theirs, he thought furiously, for the umpteenth time that night. He ought to have been in his own lavish bed of silk and brocade, in his private Head Boy room, deep under the covers and dreaming sweet dreams of beating Potter to the golden snitch.  
  
Instead here he was shivering on the floor of the potions lab, chilled to his now aching bones, slipping in and out of a miserable pseudo-sleep and right when it felt as though it might have been deepening to something remotely resembling a state of true rest, he had been startled back to full awareness by-  
  
Granger. Crying out, apparently in the throes of a nightmare.  
  
He looked across the classroom to where she huddled underneath his cloak. Yes, the Gryffindor mudblood royal-pain-in-the-ass otherwise known as Hermione Granger was underneath _his bloody cloak_.  
  
Why? At this point, he couldn't even begin to say. It had just...seemed like a good idea at the time. When he had carried her into the room, the first thing he had done was to lay her just inside the door and leave her there in order to prowl the lab's perimeter, looking for any other entrances that would require locking. As he had done this, he had noted signs of a struggle- apparently the Head Girl had managed to hold her own against Crabbe and Goyle...for a while, anyway. Not bad for having been ambushed. He had found her wand- in two pieces, on the floor- and had mended it easily. By the time he had returned to her side, she had been, though still unconscious, shivering so severely her teeth had begun to chatter- and a flush had been rising to her cheeks.  
  
_Oh, this is great_, he had thought; _this is just abso-fucking-lutely perfect. Now the mudblood's getting sick on top of everything else.  
_  
Squatting beside her, he had immediately felt a deathly cold draft sweeping in from the corridor, under the crack at the bottom of the classroom door. He had unwittingly laid her directly in its path. Cursing violently under his breath, he had once more gathered her into his arms (still without ever pausing to consider that there were other methods of transporting her- methods that would require little to no physical contact between himself and this inferior being, this "mudblood") and had stalked with her to a far corner of the room; the area most removed, as best he could tell, from the draft.  
  
There he had lain her gently on the floor, then removed his cloak and wrapped it tightly about her- not just covering her her, but... _cocooning_ her within it. She was a slight thing, and it was quite a voluminous cloak; he had a lot of fabric to work with. The effect he created was something akin to that of a Muggle sleeping bag. Not that Draco had ever seen one, or would have recognized the comparison.  
  
This done, he had retreated to the far side of the room, muttering all the way about idiot Head Girls who are meant to be so goddamned clever, yet go patrolling enemy territory alone at night, and without a cloak of their own, in mid-February. Eventually he had settled down in the room's second least drafty corner, and this was where he found himself now, body aching with cold, face feeling suddenly hot and flushed so that when he pressed his hands tentatively to his cheeks, his fingers felt like ice.  
  
Which could mean only one thing. That in trying to prevent the mudblood's coming down sick from the draft, he had succeeded in condemning himself to that very fate.  
  
_GODDAMN IT.  
_  
And still she was thrashing and crying out on the other side of the room. Lowering his hands from his fever-flushed face, he listened with some interest as she shouted, her voice cracking,  
  
"Harry! Ron! Where are you? Help me! _Help_!"  
  
Suddenly she sat straight up, gasping. He watched as her dark eyes opened, wide with fear and disorientation. With a soft cry of distress, she wrenched her arms free of his cloak, staring uncomprehendingly down at the unfamiliar garment. She was breathing hard as she raised her eyes again and scanned the room.  
  
But she didn't see him, in his distant and shadowy corner. Draco decided that a gentleman should make his presence known, so he seized a large wooden ladle, used for stirring potions, which lay nearby and threw it at her. "Over here, Granger," he drawled simultaneously.  
  
Her head whipped toward the sound of his voice just as the ladle, barely missing her, impacted the wall beside her. Her eyes first went even wider, then narrowed to furious slits.  
  
"Malfoy," she spat. "What is going on?"  
  
"And a good morning to you too," Draco said calmly. "Surely you haven't forgotten your encounter last night with a couple of...associates of mine?"  
  
He watched the play of emotions on her face as her memories returned in a rush. Anger, then dismay, then a dawning of wonder as her hands pressed themselves once again to her ribcage- that area that had sustained such grievous damage the previous night- and found herself more or less whole. True, she winced slightly, but her awestruck expression remained.  
  
"Malfoy," she said again, but now her tone was hesitant, unsure. "I thought- I thought they had hurt me badly. I couldn't stay upright, I couldn't...I couldn't..._breathe_...." She trailed off, looking at him uncertainly.  
  
"They _did_ hurt you badly," Draco said flatly, "and all your own fault, too. Yours and Weasel-boy's. I hope you'll think twice before you go patrolling alone again, just so that Weasley can get his rocks off."  
  
The wondering look on her face vanished at that, to be replaced by an expression of shocked outrage, and she opened her mouth for a heated retort- probably, he thought with distaste, a shrill exclamation of 'how dare you?' or 'well, I never!' But he continued before she had the opportunity to say anything.  
  
"You nearly died, or so it appeared to me," he said, in that same flat, emotionless voice, and her mouth shut again with a snap. "You should count yourself very lucky that I'm well-versed in medical magic, and had no particular desire to see two of my friends (_but they're not really your friends, are they?_ a corner of his mind whispered traitorously; _not in the truest sense of the word...._) expelled."  
  
She was now staring at him as if he had grown a second head.  
  
"_You_ healed me?" she asked at length, incredulity clear in her tone.  
  
Draco said nothing, just looked levelly back at her. He didn't like repeating himself. Plus, the answer was patently obvious. Really, and she was meant to be so smart.  
  
"But," she said, after the silence had spiraled out and out, "you're not in Magical Medical Studies. How- how did you-?"  
  
He sighed. "Of course I'm not in that ridiculous class. There's not a thing being taught in it that I don't already know. I'm field-trained, Granger."  
  
Her eyes widened. He literally saw the understanding click in her mind. "The Death Eaters," she breathed. "You're- you're training to be...some sort of Death Eater _medic_?"  
  
Draco bristled at the disgusted look on her face. "Not training," he snapped. "I'm trained."  
  
And found himself growing more irked by the second as her face dissolved from disgust into sadness and she shook her head slowly, saying only, "oh, Malfoy."  
  
"Save it, Granger," he snarled. "I'm not interested. I'm not of age to fight yet, but I can still help the fallen. Those bloody Aurors don't pull their punches, you know. They're just as vicious as we are in battle. And what's so damn wrong with having a cause I believe in, anyway? You can't condemn me for that; you're the same. It just so happens that our causes are diametrically opposed to each other, but I would die for mine and I get the distinct impression that you would die for yours as well."  
  
"Because mine is _right_!" she shouted suddenly, vehemently, catching him off- guard. He hadn't expected such an explosion from her. But it only took him an instant to gather his wits about him and throw her heated words right back at her, in a mocking, singsong voice-  
  
"Because mine is right! Really, Granger, everyone at this poor excuse for a school carries on like you're some sort of prodigy, but shouldn't a truly clever person be able to come up with a more compelling reason than that? Because yours is right." He snorted. "Of course _you _would believe it's right; you're a mudblood."  
  
He noted with some amusement that she looked angry enough to physically launch herself at him. Damned ingrate that she was. He had healed her, after all. That should have been good for something. But no, she had shown not an ounce of gratitude. Probably her Muggle upbringing, he reflected. Muggle children must not be taught manners. Still, he wasn't particularly spoiling for a fight with her at the moment. His brow creased as he pondered why this should be the case. He had never turned down the opportunity for some good verbal sparring with her before. (He actually liked that she could usually keep up with him in an argument- which was why he had been so disdainful of her outburst a moment ago. He knew she could do better.)  
  
So then, why not now? Oh, no. It couldn't be that he was still feeling protective toward her as a result of seeing her so vulnerable last night and then healing her, could it? He had hoped that those feelings would have worn off by now. They had already caused enough trouble- one only needed to look at him sitting cold and sore and slightly feverish on the hard stone floor instead of fast asleep in his soft, warm bed to see that- and yet, that faint protectiveness that had compelled him to lock himself in the potions lab with her, instead of washing his hands of her and going to bed, lingered on.  
  
Whether for that reason or for some other, deeper one not even guessed at as of yet, he found himself wanting to smooth things over with Granger. So, he paid her the highest compliment he knew how.  
  
"It's really kind of too bad you _are_ a mudblood. Though I'll never tell you as much again, you are smart, and you proved last night that you're tough as well. I never would have guessed how badly hurt you were from the way you were acting. (_Well_, he thought, _until I went and almost killed her by yanking her up like that_....) You would have been an asset to our side, Granger."  
  
She stared at him for a long moment in utter, blank astonishment. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.  
  
"It's really kind of too bad you're a heartless, evil bastard, Malfoy," she finally rejoined. "You clearly have incredible natural healing abilities. _You_ would have been an asset to _our_ side."  
  
They lapsed into silence. There seemed to be nothing more to be said. They were at an impasse, and they both knew it.  
  
Eventually, Hermione asked the time, adding, in a voice that was suddenly strained nearly to the breaking point, that she no longer had a working wand of her own.  
  
Draco pulled out his own wand and gave it a causal flick. Shimmering green numbers appeared in the air, hanging there until he dispelled them with another flick of his wrist.  
  
5:48am  
  
"And by the way, here you go," he said, and tossed her her wand.  
  
She caught it reflexively, then stared at it for a long moment in complete open-mouthed amazement. Draco's lip twitched unconsciously in what may just have been the beginning of a true smile as he watched her. She was sort of pretty, he mused, when her face was open and unguarded like this- not closed and hostile as it usually was whenever she encountered him around the school, flanked by her two lackeys just as he was usually flanked by his.  
  
But when she looked up and met his eyes again, he saw that the open expression she had been wearing had vanished; her face had snapped shut like one of those many books she was always lugging around. His response was immediate and reflexive; any hint of a smile was wiped from his features and his own expression went blank as he felt his defenses snap into place.  
  
"There's no way you should have been able to mend this so well," she said. She spoke evenly, but nonetheless Draco- observant to a fault- could detect just a hint of accusation in her voice, her eyes. As he watched, she leaned over to the side and placed the wand gently on the floor, as far away from herself as she could reach. "You used dark magic," she said. "You must have. I don't trust it. I don't want anything to do with it."  
  
And her words stung him. They actually stung him- even with his defenses up. What the hell was going on? He was, for a moment, caught between hurt at her accusation (even though it was true- so he had used a spell not taught at Hogwarts- what of that? It wasn't as if he had boobytrapped the wand or anything- he could have; he could have and he wished for a fierce, angry moment that he _had_- but he hadn't) and surprise that her accusation hurt. He wasn't supposed to allow the words of a mudblood- of someone so far beneath him- to hurt.  
  
What was the matter with him? He decided that it must be the fact that he was sleep-deprived and becoming increasingly feverish by the moment- all thanks to the fucking ingrate over there who had just thrown his good intentions right back in his face.  
  
_That's what I get_, he thought bitterly, _for ever letting my guard down. Well, it won't happen again, that's for sure. Not for one goddamned second_.  
  
"Use the wand or don't, Granger," he snapped. "It's all the same to me. It should be rather amusing, actually, to see you try to struggle through classes without it, right through to the Easter holidays, which is the next time you'll have a chance to go to Diagon Alley and replace it. I shall be most interested to see what sort of excuse you think up for refusing to handle a perfectly good wand. Or perhaps you'd prefer to snap it again and tell everyone what really happened last night."  
  
He was pushing himself to his feet as he spoke, and was gratified to see the brief yet intense look of panic flit across her face at those words. "How about it, Granger?" he taunted. "Going to come clean and face the consequences? Let Weasley face them as well?"  
  
"Your nasty friends would have to face the consequences too," she growled, hiding her panic behind anger. "And the consequences for them will be far worse than for Ron and me."  
  
Draco, now leaning indolently against the wall, graced her with a fluid, one-shouldered shrug. "This is true," he conceded, "but the thing is, Granger, though Crabbe and Goyle can be quite useful to me at times, I don't value them in the same way I think you value Weasley. I will go only so far to protect them. I covered for them last night by healing you myself instead of turning you over to the proper authorities, but I'm not going to attempt to forbid you speaking about what happened or anything. Frankly, I think they probably deserve to suffer some consequences for what they did to you. I don't condone hitting girls. It's low."  
  
Holy shit, had he just admitted that to her? Not only that he thought her friendship with Potter and Weasley a truer one than his own with Crabbe and Goyle, but even that he considered what they had done to her wrong? The way in which her eyes were widening said that he had.  
  
"So the choice is yours," he concluded. "The wand is as it ever was. I have not altered it at all. Use it or not, I don't care. As for me, I'm cold and sore and tired, and I'm going to bed."  
  
He stepped away from the wall, and was surprised and alarmed when he swayed briefly on his feet, as if dizzy.  
  
_Oh, not good. Not bloody good at all.  
_  
"Malfoy?" The voice which had, so far this morning, shouted, snapped, growled at and accused him now held a new tone- that of concern. He gave his head a quick shake to clear it, got himself under control, and raised his eyes to meet Hermione's, across the room. He saw that she too had stood. The concern he had heard in her voice was mirrored in her face.  
  
"Are you alright?" she asked.  
  
Oh, how he hated being caught by her in a weak moment. Hatedhatedhated it.  
  
"I'm fine," he ground out from between clenched teeth, but even as he said it he knew it wasn't so.  
  
He was sick.  
  
Even as he stood there, he could feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat, could feel the approach of fever-induced chills.  
  
_Bloody hell.  
_  
He had to get out of here, away from her. He made for the door, muttering, as he went, a counter-spell to the locking one he had used previously.  
  
Just as his hand closed on the knob, however, she stopped him once again.  
  
"Malfoy." Her voice was soft- so soft he barely heard it. For a moment he considered proceeding as if he hadn't heard it; just walking through the door and leaving her there without a backward glance- but then, almost against his will, he found himself turning once more to face her. She still stood in the same spot, but was now holding his cloak out to him.  
  
"You'll be wanting this back," she said. He said nothing, nor did he move to take the cloak from her outstretched hand. Just looked at her levelly- or as levelly as he could, anyway; he was starting to shake. He hoped fervently that she wouldn't notice.  
  
Hermione shifted from foot to foot, made uncomfortable by his lack of response. Finally she said, in that same soft, hesitant voice, "listen, Malfoy, I- I just want to say that I- well, thanks, that's all. You...um...you really helped me out and...I'm grateful. Thank you."  
  
Again, silence reigned for a long time. Then Draco crossed the room to stand directly in front of her. Still without a word, without a pause to analyze his own actions, he pressed the tip of his wand gently to her discolored cheek, then to her cut and slightly swollen lower lip. She looked up at him with wide, solemn, unflinching eyes. When he drew it back again a moment later, her face was unblemished.  
  
"Keep the cloak, Granger," he said, his voice betraying his bone-deep weariness even though he had not intended it to. "It's still cold, and you have a longer walk than I do, back to your golden Tower. Anyway-" and he turned once again toward the door- "I have a dozen more just like it."  
  
Then he did leave, without a backward glance. He never saw how very long she stood there, staring after him, conflicting emotions playing across her face. He never saw her wrap the cloak about herself once more, then bend down and pick up her wand, slipping it into her pocket before exiting the room herself.

00000  
  
By the time Hermione left the potions lab to begin her long trek upward to her own room, Draco had nearly reached his.  
  
Entering, he pointed his wand at his private fireplace and muttered "Incendio." Immediately, a lively fire sprung up in the grate. He sank to the edge of his bed, ran both hands through his baby-fine silvery hair, and bent to remove his boots. Once he had kicked them off he stood and shrugged out of his clothes, leaving them in an untidy heap on the floor. He had been planning on slipping into bed wearing only his green silk boxers- that was how he usually slept- but the chills that had been threatening hit him now, washing over him in a sudden and violent assault.  
  
"Goddamn it," he swore through gritted teeth- if they hadn't been gritted, they would have been chattering- and Accio'd himself a pair of soft, jersey- knit sleep pants and a white cotton tee-shirt from his wardrobe. He pulled them on and climbed into bed, shivering with increasing violence as he pulled the covers up around himself.  
  
On his nightstand, his wand automatically went into alarm clock mode, as it had been programmed to do whenever set there, and shot the shimmering green numbers into the air some three feet above itself, where they hung and would continue to hang until such time as he picked the wand up again.  
  
6:13am  
  
It being Sunday, he was free until two o'clock, when he was supposed to preside over the monthly League of Young Death Eaters meeting. He was president, of course; not truly by choice, but simply because he was, well, Draco Malfoy. It was expected of him, by his family, by his Housemates- hell, probably by Dumbledore himself. It was his job, just as being Head Boy was his job, just as marrying Pansy and eventually producing a pureblooded Malfoy heir of his own was his job.  
  
So- two o'clock. That still gave him several hours in which to rest and fight this damn thing off. He would not succumb, he would not! He was Draco Malfoy; he didn't get sick. Especially not helping ungrateful- well, belatedly grateful- mudbloods.  
  
That was the last coherent thought he had as he drifted off into a troubled, fevered sleep.  
  
For despite his protestations to the contrary, he would not fight this thing off. The battle had already been fought- and lost. He was sick. Oh, yes indeed.  
  
His temperature spiraled ever higher that long day as he tossed and moaned and sweated, wracked by chills even though the magical fire he had started in the grate, never abating, kept the room steeped in a sweltering heat.  
  
In all his strange, delirious dreams, the one image that stood out most vividly in his fevered mind was that of Hermione's face- her face, that could be so pretty when it wasn't wearing that expression of hostile disdain she seemed to reserve especially for him. Her face, which had been so battered when he had found her last night. And the blood- that thin ribbon of blood that had trickled from the corner of her mouth, bight Gryffindor scarlet; not muddy at all, as far as he could see, but as red as a jewel.  
  
As red as his own.  
  
He missed his meeting.


	3. Chapter 3: Delirium

It was Pansy, the League's vice-president (of course), who found him.  
  
The assembled upper-year Slytherins had waited a good half-hour for their leader to show up, and when he had not, Pansy had called the meeting to order without him, and had presided over it herself, which was something she had never previously had the opportunity to do. She rather relished her time in the limelight that afternoon, but the whole time a niggling little worry was tugging at the back of her mind. It was just so out of character for Draco to skive off a meeting like this. And he had been acting so distant the night before- he had vanished from her after-curfew Valentine party not even an hour into it, and hadn't been seen again since.  
  
What was wrong with her intended?  
  
So just as soon as the meeting concluded, around five o'clock, she made her way to the Head Boy's room and knocked. Receiving no answer, her concern increased a notch, and she let herself in. It was a sign of just how out of it Draco had been that he had neglected to set locking charms about his door, as was usually his custom; he didn't ordinarily like being surprised by anyone, and Pansy least of all.  
  
The first thing that Pansy registered was that the room felt like a blast furnace. Then she saw Draco and a startled cry escaped her. He was so clearly very, very sick. He was lying half off the bed, clad in a white tee- shirt and green boxers (he had kicked off the pants some hours ago) that were both soaked through with sweat, clinging to him. The blankets were twisted and tangled about his legs, his fair hair pasted to his brow with perspiration. He tossed his head fitfully, muttering incoherently as she approached the bed.  
  
"Draco?" she said, her voice little more than a whisper.  
  
Draco's head snapped toward her and those remarkable pale eyes of his opened- but he didn't seem to see her at all. He seemed to be looking right through her.  
  
"Granger?" he croaked.  
  
Pansy recoiled a little at this. He thought she was that bushy haired, know- it-all mudblood bitch? This _must_ be bad.  
  
"No, sweetheart," she said, crossing the last bit of distance that separated them and seizing him, pulling him fully back onto the bed. "There are no nasty mudbloods here. It's me, Pansy. You'll be all right now, love."  
  
She seated herself beside him on the edge of the bed, sucked in a deep breath, and put all of her considerable lung power to work hollering for Crabbe and Goyle. She didn't notice how, even in the throes of delirium, Draco winced away from the sound of her shrilly raised voice. A few minutes later, the approach of lumbering footsteps told her that she had achieved her goal; the pair were on their way.  
  
She had been planning on taking Draco up to the hospital wing, supported between Crabbe and Goyle, but changed her plan quickly given Draco's reaction when they entered the room. He issued what could only be described as a war cry, and attempted to launch him himself at them bodily. In his severely weakened state, all he managed to do was to fall halfway off the bed again, but even as Pansy pulled him back and up once more, he was still straining toward the confused pair of goons, and his intentions were clearly not friendly. So Pansy ordered them to go and fetch Madam Pomfrey instead, and right quick if you please, then settled down to wait with her betrothed until the mediwitch arrived.  
  
The second Crabbe and Goyle left, Draco reached up and cupped her face in his hand. As she leaned down over him, pleasantly surprised by this unusually intimate gesture, he ran his fingers first over her left cheekbone, then across her lower lip, caressing her, but more than that- it was almost as if he were inspecting for damage, or something. There was a burning intensity behind those quartz-colored eyes that she had never seen before.  
  
Fever-induced; it had to be.  
  
"Draco-" she began, but he cut her off.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. And then again, "I'm sorry. They'll answer to me." Then, as she tried to make some sense of these strange words, he blinked, and finally seemed to see her- the first time she felt like he had really seen her since she had entered his room. He let his hand fall away.  
  
"Water," he croaked.  
  
She made a great show of fussing over him, but was secretly quite pleased to have found him in this state. For one thing, it explained why he had been acting so stand-offish the night before. He must have been feeling ill even then; no wonder he hadn't wanted to dance. It was a relief to have that explained away, and, she thought rather hopefully, maybe he had even been attempting to protect her- not wanting her to catch whatever it was he had.  
  
Plus, the fussing itself was enjoyable, and something he never would have put up with under ordinary circumstances. Not one to tolerate being babied, her Draco. (She remembered back to third year, when that horrible beast of Hagrid's had nearly ripped his arm off, and how scared he had been, and how he had welcomed her presence in the hospital wing when she had run to see him after class. But he had grown and changed a lot since then.) The only thing that disquieted her was the fact that by the time Madam Pomfrey arrived, he had called her 'Granger' twice more.  
  
The first time she had thought it a fluke, but now it became clear that something about the mudblood was troubling him. She couldn't imagine what it was. She racked her brain, trying to think whether she had witnessed any recent confrontations between the two of them, but was unable to come up with anything. Well, she'd ask him about it when he was recovered; he was in no shape to explain anything to her now.  
  
Then Madam Pomfrey was there, with Professor Snape in tow for good measure, bending over Draco with a worried expression on her face, clucking to herself as she examined him, Snape hovering, silent and foreboding, at the foot of the bed; his expression as stony as ever, the spark of concern in his dark eyes unreadable to all save those who knew him best. Draco would have recognized it, had he been in any condition to register his mentor's presence; Pansy did not.  
  
Crabbe and Goyle, having dutifully alerted the mediwitch and their Head of House, did not return, showing, perhaps, rather more intelligence than they were generally given credit for...at least, in the inherently Slytherin arena of self-preservation.  
  
Madam Pomfrey shook her head and, without so much as turning, held a hand out behind her toward Snape. Silently and unhesitatingly, he placed a small blue vial in the mediwitch's hand; she uncorked it and, raising Draco's head from his sweat-dampened pillow, poured the contents down his throat.  
  
"What-?" Pansy began.  
  
"Temperature reducing potion," Snape said curtly.  
  
Madam Pomfrey nodded, still clucking away. "What this child needs now is rest, and plenty of it," she said. "Also water- he needs to stay hydrated. He should manage to right himself with the help of the potion, but someone ought to sit with him through the night, and I absolutely insist that he remain on bed rest tomorrow; no classes whatsoever. I'll look him over again tomorrow night before pronouncing him fit for class on Tuesday. Now who will stay with him?"  
  
Pansy's heart absolutely leapt at this opportunity, but before she had the chance to volunteer, Snape said, in a tone of complete finality, "I will sit with him."  
  
Pansy's face fell almost comically at that, though of course she was unaware of this. Snape, seeing her reaction, said coolly, "I can see what you are thinking, Miss Parksinson, and you are to be commended for the concern you show. Already Draco is in your debt for finding him and summoning help. But now he needs someone beside him who will be able to react in a crisis; if his fever spikes, for instance. You have done all that could be expected from you. Now go-" his eyes flicked to the green numbers that hung steadily above Draco's nightstand- "before you miss dinner entirely."  
  
Pansy had no choice but to obey, though she left the room slowly, and with many a backward glance. Madam Pomfrey followed her out.  
  
Finding himself alone with Draco, Snape first banked the fire with a wave of his hand, instantly reducing the amount of heat it was putting out to a more tolerable level. He then turned his attention to the sick boy, peeling away the sweat-drenched blankets that had been tangled about his legs and transfiguring the whole soggy mess of them into a single clean down comforter, which he proceeded to tuck around Draco with a gentleness Harry Potter would never have believed.  
  
Heaving a deep sigh, the potions master then drew over a chair from Draco's tidy desk and seated himself beside his star student, his protégé- the boy he loved like he imagined he would have loved a son of his own. He had known Draco, after all, practically from birth. And never had he seen him this ill. Draco typically was not prone to getting sick. He had been fine yesterday; Snape had seen him at the Valentine Feast in the Great Hall, holding court at the Slytherin table, as usual....  
  
What in the bloody hell had happened between then and now?  
  
He conjured a basin of cool water and a soft cloth out of thin air, dipped the cloth in the water, leaned forward and set it on Draco's forehead. Instantly, Draco's eyes opened and his hand flashed out; he gripped Snape's wrist and held on with a surprising strength.  
  
"Draco?" Snape said quietly, startled but not showing it.  
  
"Professor," Draco said, his pale eyes burning with the same intensity Pansy had witnessed earlier, "it wasn't right. No matter...no matter who she is, it just wasn't right. It wasn't..." he trailed off, and his eyes drifted shut again, but still he held on to Snape's arm. "Blood is blood," he said, his voice fading to a hoarse whisper. "Hers...mine...blood...is blood. It's all the same."  
  
As Snape was puzzling over this statement (did he dare to hope that it meant what it sounded like it meant? He had almost given up hope of seeing Draco become anything more in life than just another of Voldemort's mindless followers, taking countless others with him as he hurled himself toward an early grave. Could it be that this boy- a boy he loved so deeply it hurt sometimes- may yet see the light? 'Blood is blood, it's all the same'...words he had never thought to hear from Draco's mouth, but welcome words indeed) Draco's eyes opened once more. This time, however, they were sleepy, languid.  
  
"Professor," he murmured, "did I catch it?"  
  
"Catch what, Draco?" Snape asked.  
  
"The snitch." Draco's tone was impatient, as if he couldn't believe Snape was being so dense. He finally released his grip on Snape's wrist and stretched out his arm, as if reaching for a snitch that only he could see. "I was diving...it was right there...right there. I was so close-" his brow furrowed. "But then Potter was there...I never even saw him coming...and he caught it, didn't he, professor? Potter always catches it."  
  
Draco's hand fell back to the bed, and the look of resignation on his face twisted Snape's heart. Goddamn Harry Bloody Potter.  
  
"No, Draco, not this time," he said quietly. "You caught it this time. You did well."  
  
A small smile curved Draco's lips. "That's good," he whispered. "Father will be pleased."  
  
Snape grimaced. He knew full well how hard Lucius was on the boy every time he lost to Potter. The taunts and sneers Draco had to endure from his own father, as if he weren't already hard enough on himself. He had even tried to decline the position of Slytherin Quidditch Captain when it had first been offered him last year, feeling, due to his repeated defeats at the hands of the Gryffindor boy wonder, that he hadn't earned the title. But his Housemates wouldn't hear of it and neither, as it turned out, would Lucius. A very strongly worded letter borne by express owl, detailing a Malfoy's familial duty to accept and use to full advantage every honor and title offered him had put an end to Draco's hesitation on that matter.  
  
But this was no time to brood over Lucius' unrealistic expectations of, or frequent cruelty to, his son. Draco needed to be calmed, cared for, allowed to get the rest his body so badly needed in order to recover.  
  
"Yes, he will be, Draco," he soothed. "He will be, and so am I. Now rest. I'll stay with you until you are well."  
  
Draco blinked and for just an instant his eyes cleared; he seemed to be looking directly at his mentor- really seeing him- and his face held an expression of almost comical indignity.  
  
"But I'm fine, professor," he said. "I don't get sick."  
  
Then his eyes slipped shut and he was asleep before Snape could even begin to phrase a reply.

00000  
  
Draco groaned as he woke, near noon on Monday. He was lying on his stomach with his face buried in one of his many pillows; with a grunt of effort he rolled himself onto his back. God, why was he so weak? He felt utterly drained- just the effort it had taken to push himself over left his arms shaking.  
  
"Ye Gods," he muttered aloud in a rusty voice, his face creased into a frown, eyes still shut, "what in the hell happened?"  
  
"I was rather hoping you could tell me that," said a familiar, gravelly voice from his bedside. "I've never seen you so sick. In fact, I don't believe I've ever previously seen you sick at all. So I'm most interested to hear what brought this on."  
  
Draco's pale eyes snapped open, seeking the source of the voice; his mentor and longtime family friend. "Professor," he said, confusion evident in his expression, "I was sick?"  
  
"Indeed," Snape said dryly. "Tell me, Draco, gifted medic that you are, what you would do for someone suffering from a temperature of Fahrenheit one hundred and five?"  
  
"Temperature reducing potion," Draco answered automatically, "loads of water, an ice bath if it went any higher, and- and- wait a minute, _a hundred and five?!_ You can't be serious."  
  
Snape leaned forward, his seriousness written all over his face. "With your training, you should have damn well recognized how sick you were and asked for help," he growled, the anger in his voice making it more clear to Draco than words ever could that his mentor had been worried- no, more than worried, _scared_- and therefore had to be telling the truth about just how dangerous his condition had been.  
  
"What in the hell were you thinking, Draco Herodotus Malfoy?" Snape continued. "If Miss Parkinson hadn't found you when she did, it is entirely possible that you could be dead right now."  
  
"Pansy was in here?" Draco asked, his distaste clearly evident in both his voice and expression, levering himself up on his elbows and glancing about the room as though expecting to find her still lurking in one of the corners.  
  
His reaction provoked Snape into the barest hint of a smile, despite his exasperation at Draco, who of all people should have bloody well known better how to care for himself. "Oh yes," he replied, "it was Miss Parkinson who came looking for you when you missed your meeting and, finding you here wracked by fever and in the throes of delirium, sent Crabbe and Goyle to alert Madam Pomfrey and myself. She was most anxious to stay and nurse you through the night," he continued, enjoying the look of horror that was spreading across Draco's face, "but I had the distinct impression that you would be...less than enthusiastic about that proposition if you'd had your wits about you. So I sent her off and stayed myself."  
  
Draco collapsed back onto his pillows, his face almost comical in its utter dismay. He ran both hands through his sweat-dampened and sleep-rumpled hair. "Delirious," he muttered unhappily. "Delirious. Bloody hell. Did I say anything? Professor? What did I say?"  
  
Snape leaned forward, looking even more somber and intense than was usual, and steepled his fingers under his chin. "About that, Draco...you did say some- rather curious things."  
  
Draco's eyes slipped shut, a pained expression settling over his face as though Snape's words had been the confirmation of his worst fears. He began massaging his temples with the first two fingers of each hand, as though he were feeling a massive headache coming on. Without bothering to open his eyes again, he said in a flat, dead, tone, "look, Professor, whatever I may have said about Pansy, I know my duty and I will-"  
  
"Not about Miss Parkinson," Snape cut him off. This surprised Draco enough that his eyes snapped open once more, fixing on the adult he trusted most in the world. "Not Pansy? What then?"  
  
"Is there anything you'd like to tell me about one Hermione Granger of Gryffindor House?"  
  
"Granger," Draco echoed, as his encounter with the Head Girl, the reason he had gotten sick in the first place, which he hadn't thought of since awakening, came rushing back in its every minute detail. "Granger. Aw, fuck. Granger."  
  
"Would you care to elaborate on that, Draco?"  
  
Draco paused, gathering his suddenly scattered thoughts and engaging in a quick inner debate over how much to tell his mentor. Snape, seeing his hesitation, decided to take the initiative in the matter.  
  
"Miss Parkinson came back to check on you one more time before she went to bed last night. At that point she told me that while delirious, you had called her 'Granger' no less than three times. And something you said to me shortly after I arrived here certainly caught my attention. You said, and I quote, 'blood is blood. Mine- hers- it's all the same.' I can only assume that you were referring to Miss Granger then as well. Clearly something about her has been preying on your mind. You are under no obligation to reveal to me what that something is, but if you would care to...I shall offer you all the advice I know how."  
  
"Blood," Draco whispered, sounding stricken, and looking suddenly a lot younger than his seventeen years, on account of the naked fear on his face, fear that he would not have allowed anyone but Snape to see. "All the same...oh no. Professor- you won't tell my father, will you? I was sick, I didn't know what I was-" he broke off and swallowed, hard. When he spoke again, his voice was raw- an almost painful sound. "He'll fucking kill me."  
  
Snape sighed and reached a decision that he had been debating over all night long. "I won't tell him, Draco," he said, "you can rest assured of that- if you will do me the same courtesy. You must not, under any circumstances, repeat what I am about to say to you. Do you understand?"  
  
Some of the upset left Draco's face, to be replaced by puzzled curiosity. "You know I can keep my mouth shut, Professor," he said simply.  
  
Snape did know it. He trusted Draco implicitly.  
  
"Listen well," he said quietly, holding Draco's pale gaze steadily with his dark one, "because I am only going to say this once. What you said in your delirium- blood is blood, it's all the same- Draco, truer words were never spoken." He paused for a moment, watching Draco's eyes widen with shock. "It _is_ all the same, Draco," he repeated, "and if I had understood that when I was your age, I believe I would be a far happier man today. I don't expect you to accept what I've just told you out of hand- I understand that it goes against everything you've been raised to believe in and fight for. But think about it. And if you want to discuss this further, my door is always open to you, you know that. Now, however-" his eyes cut to the numbers that Draco's wand continued to project into the air- "I have just time enough to grab a bite to eat before meeting my afternoon class. Moronic lot of Hufflepuff third years."  
  
He got to his feet, preparing to leave. "Pomfrey says that you are under strict orders to rest today," he said, on his way to the door. "She'll be by to check on you around dinner time. It certainly looks to me, however, as though I can expect to see you in class tomorrow; you seem much improved already. And Draco-" he met the blond boy's eyes once more from where he now stood with his hand on the knob- "kindly don't ever scare me like that again."  
  
So saying, he swept through the door, closing it firmly behind him and leaving Draco staring at it, shell-shocked, his mind reeling.


	4. Chapter 4: In The Library

Weeks passed, yet Draco had cause to wonder whether the fever had ever truly left him. It seemed to manifest itself now and again, usually in the form of an involuntary shiver and that strange feeling of weakness he had had when he'd first awoken to find Snape in his room- brought on, more often than not, by meeting Granger's eyes across a classroom, or in the Great Hall at mealtimes.  
  
It was a damn nuisance, was what it was.  
  
If there was any consolation to be had, it was that he saw in those dark eyes, on the occasions they met his, a depth of unease that matched his own. She had been unsettled by their Valentine night encounter as well, it seemed.  
  
Small consolation, that.  
  
The fact was that he just couldn't seem to get Granger out of his mind. And it was driving him to distraction. He had mistaken the due date on an important essay in Transfiguration, had made numerous small slip-ups in Potions, normally his best and favorite subject, and had, just this past Saturday, lost the snitch to Potter once again because his mind, as he had flown, had been elsewhere- three bloody guesses where. Thankfully Slytherin still had a shot at the Quidditch Cup due to his earlier outstanding performance against the other Houses, but... this was bloody ridiculous.  
  
He found himself sneaking glances at her every chance he got, to the detriment of his schoolwork, to the detriment of his focus on Quidditch, to the detriment of his fucking _sanity_, by God- trying to catch her with her guard down in order to get a glimpse of that prettiness she possessed when she wasn't glaring at him. She was not beautiful, not in the conventional sense, like Lavender Brown or Susan Bones, But Hermione's prettiness- it got under a man's skin, damn it all to hell. And it was as rare as cool, fresh water in a desert and dear God, he found himself _thirsting_ for it.  
  
And oh, how he fought it. You had better believe that he fought it. Going into an arranged marriage was one thing- though he had never been overjoyed by the prospect of marriage to Pansy, he had never strenuously objected to it, either, for he had always accepted that it was a given, and what was the use of railing against something that was a given- that was going to happen anyway, as inexorably as the Sun rises each morning?  
  
But then, he had never felt this sort of (unwelcome as it was) longing for another before. Had never allowed himself to do so, had stomped on any such stirrings in himself the second he became aware of them, and for just this reason. More complications in his life he didn't need, thank you very bloody much. He had enough on his plate, and he was going to marry Pansy and do right by his family, period, end of discussion. So why invite the havoc that a love affair would wreak into his life? If he couldn't love his future wife- and he had tried, but without success- then he would love no one. It was simpler that way.  
  
So going into an arranged marriage was one thing, but this- going into an arranged marriage when he suddenly and inexplicably and desperately wanted (and what a struggle _that_ had been, to even admit to himself that he wanted her) a girl who was so damnably far beneath him in station- wanted her with an intensity that defied all his efforts to stomp it out- that was something else. That felt like... like dying.  
  
And goddamn Snape straight to hell and back again for those fucking cryptic remarks he had had to go and make, when Draco was clearly not well, not himself, and therefore most susceptible to such traitorous notions as the Potions Master had put in his head and which he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried, seem to banish. Notions which were, entirely against his will, taking root and growing, whispering to him in the last moment before sleep at night and the first drowsy moments of waking.  
  
It was maddening.  
  
There was just one thing for it.  
  
He had to talk to her again.  
  
00000  
  
The library was deserted.  
  
Well, nearly deserted. Deserted but for Draco.  
  
He had expected it to be so, seeing as it was Friday night. Even Madam Pince had retired for the evening- however, this late in the term the library was open to seventh-year students twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, to encourage studying for the upcoming N.E.W.T. exams. No matter what time of the day or night, no seventh-year student could be penalized for being in the library. Getting to and from it, however, was another matter. Filch and Mrs. Norris still reigned supreme in the hallways.  
  
Nevertheless, Draco, hunched over a small table in the corner with books and parchments (which he could not possibly concentrate on) spread out before him, fully expected Hermione to put in an appearance.  
  
And he wasn't disappointed.  
  
He was puzzled at first when the heavy wooden door, barred with iron, creaked open and then closed again, apparently of its own accord. Then his pale eyes widened in amazement as Hermione appeared out of thin air, whisking what could only be a real, honest-to-God invisibility cloak off herself in a quick, practiced motion. Draco was far from stupid. He quite suddenly found himself back in his third year, outside the Shrieking Shack in Hogsmeade Village. Mud in his hair.  
  
"Potter," he muttered under his breath. "I knew it, I fucking knew it. Bastard!"  
  
Hermione took no notice of him in his distant and shadowy corner. He had neither expected nor wanted her to; that was why he had selected this particular spot. He wanted the advantage of being the one to initiate the conversation, on his own terms.  
  
The library was dim, in any event. Though seventh-year students were allowed to use its resources at any time of the day or night, no provisions were made for them in terms of lighting. It was assumed, and correctly so (except for a few notable cases such as Crabbe and Goyle), that they were well enough versed in magic by now to provide their own sources of light.  
  
This Hermione did, igniting her wand with a simple "Lumos", then murmuring another spell that allowed her to adjust the amount of light put out by it. She increased the wand's light output until the entire table she had selected for a workspace- which was considerably larger that the one at which Draco lurked- was bathed in its golden glow. She settled into a chair with her back to Draco, wadded up her silvery cloak, and stuffed it into her bag, from which she then began retrieving a staggering number of books, as well as ample parchment and writing supplies.  
  
Silently, Draco stood up.  
  
His heart was hammering in his chest, but damned if he was going to give her the slightest inkling of how her very presence was affecting him. He schooled his face into a perfect mask of cool disdain, took a deep, bracing breath... and stood right where he was for the next ten minutes, staring at her, utterly incapable of taking the first step in her direction.  
  
Well, he reflected bitterly, here was a first. Cool, self-possessed Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin prince, flustered- (there was no other word for it, not if he were to be brutally honest with himself- and one thing about the almost-man that Draco had grown to be was that he was brutally honest, with himself as well as others)- so, flustered by a girl. Flustered so badly he was frozen in place, unable to approach her. And by not just any girl, either, but a Gryffindor, the best friend of his arch-nemesis, and a mudblood.  
  
God help him.  
  
His Housemates would laugh him to scorn.  
  
And his father-  
  
Well, best not to dwell on what his father's reaction would be.  
  
"Get a hold of yourself, Malfoy," he growled under his breath, steeled himself, and strode over to where she sat with her back to him in the midst of her little pool of wandlight.  
  
"Evening, Granger," he drawled, when he was virtually at her elbow, causing her to gasp and start.  
  
She whirled in her chair to face him, forced by his proximity, looming over her as he was, to tip her head way back in order to look up at him.  
  
"Malfoy," she said, her voice little more than a whisper. He saw a flash of fear behind those dark eyes of hers, but she quickly mastered it- in fact, someone less adept than he at hiding their own emotions never would have picked up on it in the first place. To her credit, she did not reach for her wand- she stood, instead, bringing herself up to his level, never breaking eye contact as she did so.  
  
"You startled me," she said.  
  
Draco shrugged; a deliberately nonchalant gesture.  
  
"_You_ interrupted _me_," he replied. "I was here first." He indicated the small table at which he had been sitting, and felt her tense up immediately.  
  
"Did you see me come in?" she asked quickly.  
  
_Did I see her come in? Well now, that IS the question_.  
  
Invisibility cloaks were strictly forbidden at Hogwarts, he knew. That the Head Girl, no less, was using one... It mattered little whether this was her cloak and Potter had borrowed it that fateful day in third year, or whether it was his and she was borrowing it this night. (Invisibility cloaks were so rare that felt sure they couldn't each have one of their own.) Now that he had concrete proof of its existence, he could wrap them _both_ around his-  
  
"No," he said flatly. "My back was to the door."  
  
All right, why in the _hell_ had he just said that?  
  
She relaxed visibly, and a long moment of awkward silence ensued. Finally-  
  
"Would care to join me studying, Malfoy?" Hermione asked abruptly. "Your table over there looks a bit cramped. There's room to spread out here, and our wands, put together, would create a much better light."  
  
Draco said nothing; the truth was, so unexpected was her invitation that he could think of nothing appropriate to say. Nothing that wouldn't make him sound like some bedamned Hufflepuff idiot. But he managed to get his feet to work. He crossed to the other side of the table, pulled out the chair opposite Hermione's, waved his left hand toward his own table, and murmured, "Accio".  
  
His wand flew immediately into his outstretched hand, while his belongings quickly and neatly packed themselves into his bag, and followed. Hermione watched this display with one eyebrow arched, but declined to comment.  
  
Draco placed his wand in the center of the table next to Hermione's, and indeed, the two of them together put out a light that was much healthier to read by.  
  
Before they could settle into studying, though, Draco again reached toward the wands- but instead of retrieving his own, this time he picked up Hermione's. He made a show of inspecting it while she watched guardedly.  
  
"So how's the wand been working for you, Granger?" he asked, twirling it idly in his fingers as he spoke.  
  
"Fine, Malfoy, I thank you," Hermione replied in clipped tones.  
  
"I'm glad to see that you got over that little snit you were in," Draco remarked coolly, "and true to my word, it hasn't given you any trouble, has it?"  
  
"No," she said, positively grinding the word out from between clenched teeth.  
  
Draco thought that she was beginning to regret inviting him to join her. The thought amused him. Smitten he may have been, but he was still- well, Draco.  
  
Draco flicked the wand with practiced ease, causing it to emit a shower of green and silver sparks, then placed it back in its spot beside his own.  
  
Noticing her continued glare, however, he remarked in a deceptively casual tone, "you haven't gotten over it, though- not really. You're still bothered. Why?"  
  
Hermione glanced from him to the steadily glowing wand and back again, a battle clearly playing out behind her eyes. For a moment, it looked as though she would not answer, but then, abruptly, she capitulated.  
  
"I've been doing some research into the subject," she said, speaking rapidly, and toying nervously with her dark hair, which she had piled into a loose bun before embarking on her foray to the library, but which was now escaping every which way.  
  
Draco couldn't hide the smile that flitted across his lips at those oh-so- characteristic words- but she failed to notice in her clearly agitated state.  
  
"And?" he prompted mildly.  
  
"And," she said unhappily, "I discovered that when dark magic is used to repair a wand- and you never denied that you used dark magic- the person who repaired the wand will retain a link to it. In other words, even when I am holding my own wand, you could control it, if you saw fit. So it's not really my wand anymore, is it? It's more like... ours."  
  
Holy shit. Draco hadn't even known about that particular side effect of dark magic enhanced wand repair. Well, this was interesting.  
  
He wasn't even consciously aware of the sudden smirk on his face- smirking was second nature to him, after all- but Hermione caught it, right enough.  
  
"Oh, that makes you happy, does it, Malfoy?" she exploded. "Makes you feel just _so_ superior, eh, knowing that you have that kind of power over me! Great, go on and gloat! I don't know why I ever-" She began stuffing her books and parchments randomly into her bag, her movements quick and jerky with anger. Her voice was muffled, hair falling forward across her face as she crammed things in.  
  
"I'm leaving," she said, unnecessarily, as her intent was perfectly clear, and she swung away from him toward the door, without ever looking up. "Just do me a favor Malfoy, and stay far, far away-"  
  
Draco was around the table and blocking her exit before she could finish speaking or take a single step toward the door. Never knowing what possessed him to do it, he reached out and grasped her by both shoulders; she tossed her hair back, out of her face, and raised her eyes to his. With an unexpected pang, he saw that there were tears standing in her eyes, but she was holding them in check with fierce determination, and glaring defiantly at him.  
  
"Don't go," he said quietly. "I-" he almost choked on the next word- "I'm sorry if you think that I was... teasing you. I give you my solemn word (the next part of the oath usually went 'as a pureblood and a Malfoy', but he omitted it, rightly guessing that that would only serve to alienate her further) that I didn't know about that when I fixed your wand... though I would have fixed it anyway, if I had. The point is, now that I do know- I won't use that knowledge against you. I promise. Now sit down. If one of us has to go, it will be me. I don't want to chase you away."  
  
She stood stock still for a moment, clearly struggling for composure, then pulled back, out of his grasp, took a deep, shuddery breath, and wiped angrily at her eyes. "I hate crying," she remarked in a barely audible voice, more to herself, it seemed, than to him.  
  
Just as she started to turn away again, back toward the table this time, Draco surprised himself once more, reaching out again, but not, this time, to grasp her shoulders. No, this time it was a far more intimate gesture; he gently grasped her chin, bringing her face around toward his again, meeting her eyes, which were wide and suddenly uncertain.  
  
"It's not just the wand, is it?" he asked. "It's the whole thing- you're not over that night, period." And, unconsciously reenacting what he had done to Pansy in his delirium, he traced a finger over the cheekbone that had been so badly bruised that night, then ran his thumb lightly over her lips. There had been blood there that night- bright ruby blood, not muddy at all... and she was still an inferior being, and his duty was to his family and his family's sacred cause, and he had to keep reminding himself of that... but God, he wanted her. He could never love her- it was the worst sort of heresy to even allow that concept into his mind- but he could want her, he decided, could and did- oh, how he did. He wanted her right now on the table they'd both been sitting at, wanted to-  
  
_Enough already_.  
  
He dropped his hands.  
  
But God, there was something about this girl- her prettiness that wasn't quite beauty, her vulnerability that she tried so hard to hide beneath that exterior of know-it-all bossiness, her innocence- a quality that shone through even when she was deliberately breaking the rules- sneaking about the school in an invisibility cloak, and Head Girl, no less- that just inspired lust in a man.  
  
He frowned, remembering her disheveled state that night. Yes, there was something about this girl that inspired lust in a man, and Crabbe and Goyle were prone, after all, to acting on their basest animal instincts.  
  
"Granger," he said suddenly, "tell me what really happened that night. Your clothes were ripped. _Did_ they-?"  
  
She took a step back, then turned away from him, wrapping her arms about herself- for warmth? For protection?  
  
"I told you, no," she said in a flat voice.  
  
Draco suddenly understood.  
  
"But not for lack of trying... right?"  
  
"Not for lack of trying," she echoed in a whisper, then turned back toward him just enough so that he could see her face in profile. "No, not for lack of trying," she said again in a stronger voice, "that's why I fought so hard. I told you I would rather have died, and I meant it. I thought, fine, if I fight back and they kill me for it, so be it; it's better than the alternative. I-" she trailed off for a moment, staring into space; then, just as he was about to move toward her again, she seemed to come back to herself and faced him fully once more. The expression in her eyes now was very close to panic. "I, um, I really do have to go," she said, the words tumbling over each other in her sudden haste. "I'm sorry." And she brushed past him and virtually bolted for the door.  
  
Draco started to pursue her, then thought better of it. She really did seem overwrought- he should allow her to go in peace. "Granger," he called, instead, as she reached the door; she paused there, though she did not turn back toward him. He thought carefully about how to phrase his parting words.  
  
"Be careful of Filch," he said at last. "You've a long walk back. It would be best... not to be seen."  
  
She made no reply, just opened the door, slipped soundlessly though it, and was gone.  
  
Draco hoped she had caught his meaning and would, even now, be concealing herself beneath the invisibility cloak. It wouldn't do to have her run into that bastard Filch... or anyone else, either, for that matter.  
  
It was, of course, two particular someone elses that were occupying his thoughts at the moment.  
  
They had tried to rape her.  
  
He realized that both his fists and his jaw were clenched painfully tight.  
  
They had tried to rape her. And she had made it clear that if they had succeeded, it would have been, for her, a fate worse than death. She had feared they would kill her for fighting, yet still she had fought back.  
  
They had tried to rape her- and why, goddamn it, WHY- he lashed out suddenly, driving his fist into the end of the bookcase nearest him- did it even matter to him? Her welfare was supposed to matter to him about as much as that of someone else's house elf. So what if they had raped her? So what if they had destroyed her beautiful, fragile innocence? He wasn't supposed to care. What was more, he didn't _want_ to care- he had not asked for this complication in his life. She was only a mudblood.  
  
_But_, a corner of his mind whispered, _she's your mudblood now.  
_  
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.  
  
All right, well maybe it wasn't so bad if he looked at it from that perspective; in terms of ownership. Loving an inferior creature was unacceptable, but one could _own_ an inferior creature- take house elves, for example- and when one did, then it was natural to look out for one's property. So if he approached the issue like that- staked a claim to the mudblood, made her his next official conquest- then he could tell Crabbe and Goyle not to go near her again, and they would listen... they had bloody well better, if they knew what was good for them.  
  
He gave a barely perceptible nod, having decided on a course of action, then returned to the table they had so briefly shared and began packing up his things- by hand, this time, as there was no longer anyone to show off for. There was little point in staying in the library now that she was gone; he could study in more comfort in his private Head Boy room.  
  
He was on the verge of leaving when something caught his eye; a gleam of white on the floor, in the shadow of the table. Stooping, he retrieved a scroll of parchment and, unrolling it, was met by the sight of rows and rows of Hermione's neat writing, to the tune of three feet in all. A potions assignment due at the end of next week; she had apparently dropped it in her haste to pack her school bag.  
  
He thrust it into his bag along with his own parchments and headed back to the dungeons. Draco needed no invisibility cloak to avoid detection by Filch; he was stealthy by nature.  
  
00000  
  
An hour later, he sat at his desk, writing. His penmanship was as neat as Granger's, though more masculine. He wrote left-handed; it had thrilled his father no end when it had first come to light that his only child was a southpaw; it was a trait highly prized among Slytherins, as the great Salazar himself had been left-handed.  
  
_Dear Granger_, he wrote, a slight smirk playing about his lips, _find enclosed with this note your potions assignment, which I discovered still in the library after you left. I took the liberty of reading through it and regret to inform you that you made a grievous error in the fourth paragraph down, when listing ingredients for your proposed potion. One of the ingredients you have listed is incorrect, and will alter the effect of the potion somewhat severely; instead of turning the subject blue, as intended, the potion will, as you have written it, turn the subject inside out, resulting in a rather unpleasant death. Try it out on Longbottom, if you don't believe me; that will be no great loss. Suffice it to say, Professor Snape will give no credit to this assignment as it is, and I can only imagine the intense pleasure it will give him to upbraid you in front of the entire class. I am not going to tell you which ingredient is wrong; I am most interested to see just how clever you really are, and to that end, will be watching Snape with great interest on Friday, to see whether he accepts your work, which will of course mean that you have rectified the mistake on your own, or rejects it. DM  
_  
He sat for a moment deep in thought, then added, as a postscript, _If you make a habit of studying in the library after hours, perhaps we could do so together a few evenings a week; I think that we could be beneficial to one another as we prepare for our upcoming N.E.W.T. exams. Clearly you could use a bit of tutelage in Advanced Potions, and I admit that I am not equally strong in all subjects either; I would like to take advantage of your expertise in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Think it over, and let me know.  
_  
This done, he rolled Hermione's assignment and his letter into a single tube of parchment, tied it off with a green satin ribbon, and with a lazy flick of his left hand, caused the latch on his Eagle Owl's cage to lift and the cage door to fly open. The handsome animal came immediately to its master, alighting on the desk in front of Draco and presenting a leg to accept the message it was to deliver.  
  
"Take this up to Granger, the Head Girl," he instructed, "and do not nip her, do you understand me? You may be delivering correspondence to her somewhat frequently for a while, and you are never to nip her, Jupiter. You will recognize her for a mudblood... but she's a cut above the rest. Is that clear?"  
  
The stately owl inclined its head for an instant in a gesture of acquiescence, and Draco stood, walked over to his room's single leaded glass window, and threw it open, relishing the cool air of the early spring night as his owl swooped past him and vanished, flying almost straight up, toward the top of the castle. Draco was immensely privileged to have both a window and an owl in his room; windows were hard to come by in the dungeons, and only the Head Boy and Girl were allowed to keep owls in their rooms rather than the owlry, as only the Head Boy and Girl had private rooms in which to keep them.  
  
He paced the room until Jupiter returned, then cursed a blue streak at the fact that he bore no reply. Not even a quick note of thanks to him for saving her ass in potions, and certainly not any indication of whether she would take him up on his suggestion of studying together.  
  
The damned mudblood was playing hard-to-get.  
  
At length, he flopped down in his armchair, ran both hands through his silvery hair, closed his eyes, and, settling back deeper into the dark green plushness of the chair, finally allowed a tiny smirk to settle on his lips.  
  
The damn mudblood was playing hard-to-get. Well, so be it. It would only make the conquest sweeter in the end, for in the end he would get what he wanted. Draco Malfoy always got what he wanted. Well, except for Weasley's head on a silver platter and Potter's on a gold one, but... he was still working on that. Perhaps he could even put that particular dream on the back burner for a while, so as to devote more energy to this one. It would be worth it in the end.  
  
He wanted her- that was all, just wanted her- so badly.  
  
Victory would be so sweet. 


	5. Chapter 5: First Kiss

The following Friday, Snape accepted Hermione's potions assignment- as Draco had secretly suspected he would. Granger _was_ clever, after all, and truth be told, he had fully expected her to discover and rectify her mistake- though the dark circles under her eyes attested to the fact that it had not been easy for her. Even so, she managed to shoot him a look of triumph when Snape, with his customary dour expression firmly in place, gave it the highest mark he ever bestowed upon Gryffindor work; satisfactory.  
  
He smirked right back at her, then touched his left forefinger to his brow in the merest hint of a salute. It was only after she looked away again that he turned to glare meaningfully at Crabbe and Goyle; they both met his gaze for an instant, then looked down meekly. He had had a little discussion with them a few days ago, and was reasonably confident that they no longer posed Granger any threat. Still, it didn't hurt to remind them every now and then.  
  
It was that very evening, upon returning to his room around ten o'clock, following a relatively engaging chess game with Zabini in the common room, that he was greeted by an incessant tapping on his window. Unlatching it, he admitted a small tawny owl that he didn't recognize. Jupiter immediately went berserk in his cage, attempting to lunge at the owl through the bars, and it was this reaction on the part of his own animal that led him to believe, even before unrolling the note the tawny had brought him, that the owl belonged to Granger. Jupiter had been taught to recognize and attack not only mudbloods, but their owls as well. Draco wasn't responsible for this- Jupiter had already been trained when Draco had received him as a gift from his parents- but he had never had cause to mind it... until now.  
  
Granger's owl made a quick departure, and Draco dispensed of the scarlet ribbon that had bound the small parchment, opened it, and read;  
  
_Malfoy, I will be in the library tonight until at least midnight. I would not object to your company, if you would still like to study together. HG  
_  
Slowly, Draco smiled; a real smile.  
  
He had his opening. Now to make the most of it.  
  
00000  
  
He bided his time. He played it safe. More weeks passed and their late night library study-sessions had become a fixture in their lives that he believed she looked forward to as much as he did. The N.E.W.T. exams were less than a month away the first time he kissed her.  
  
When it happened, it was less a matter of choosing the right time and more a matter of the fact that he simply couldn't control himself any longer. It was sheer proximity, he later reflected, that did him in. They had been studying side by side, rather than sitting across from each other as was their custom; so close, this night, that he could feel the heat radiating off of her and smell her hair; so close that their shoulders would brush occasionally, sending jolts like minor electrical shocks (not that he had any concept of electricity, of course- but one need not understand electricity to experience it's effects) through his body each time it happened. The reason was simple enough; they were both reading from a single rare text that the library possessed only one copy of.  
  
It was her hair that ultimately did him in, as ironic as that was; that wild hair that he had sneered at so often in the past, that he had used to comment on to his friends- loudly, as she passed, to a veritable concert of snickers- _"Muggles must not know what a hairbrush is; someone ought to do the little mudblood a favor and hex her bald"_- but that had been growing on him just lately, until other girls' sleek, straight hair just looked, well, boring to him. Boring and all the same.  
  
On this night, she had piled it into a bun, as was usual for her during these study sessions, and had stuck one of her quills through it, chopstick style, to hold it in place. Nevertheless, the same stubborn curl kept coming loose and falling into her eyes time and time again, causing her to push it back impatiently. It had happened a dozen times over the course of the past hour; Draco had been keeping count because it positively entranced him. Not that he ever would have admitted it.  
  
The thirteenth time it happened was too much for him. Hermione, by now clearly irritated, stuck out her lower lip, which she had previously been chewing on in concentration, and huffed impatiently at the renegade curl, but just as she was raising her hand to brush it away once more, Draco leaned over and caught it in his hand. It was as soft as he had imagined it would be; lustrous and slippery as fine silk.  
  
She turned toward him, her dark eyes widening, and he gently tucked the curl behind her ear... then leaned in and kissed her.  
  
Her lips had been slightly parted, and they parted more at the touch of his on them... in surprise, he thought. He ran his tongue over those lips he'd been wanting to taste for weeks, and sucked gently on the lower one, which was already slightly swollen from all the chewing she'd been doing on it as she'd read. And then she raised one of her hands and he felt her feather- light touch on the side of his face and she was kissing him back; tentative, clearly inexperienced, and it drove him wild. He hadn't thought a simple kiss like this could cause such a depth of desire, but God, he was _hurting_ for her, he'd never experienced a kiss like this before, it was mind-blowing....  
  
And then it was over.  
  
Hermione pulled back- not far back, but far enough to break the two of them apart, and they sat for a long moment staring at each other, breathing hard, and she was so close that her sweet breath burst warm upon his face, and it was too much to take, and he was just reaching for her again- when she moved suddenly and with a speed he had never suspected she possessed; she was on her feet in an instant, so fast she nearly toppled her chair and, her eyes still locked on his, took first one step backward, then another... and then she turned and fled, bolting from the library without a single word, and without taking a single one of her belongings with her.  
  
00000  
  
Draco sat stock still for several long moments while his breathing, heart rate, and- a certain other part of his anatomy- returned to their normal state. Only then did his eyes come completely back into focus, and he found himself staring at Hermione's parchments spread out on the table, and her school bag on the floor beside her chair, the silvery fabric of the invisibility cloak that she had long since given up attempting to conceal from him clearly visible inside.  
  
"Oh, bugger all," he muttered.  
  
What this meant, obviously, was that even now Hermione was fleeing back toward Gryffindor Tower without the protection of the cloak, and if her exit had been anything to judge by, without the slightest thought for stealth; probably running flat-out as fast as her legs could carry her. There was nothing Draco could do about that, except hope fervently that luck would be on her side and she would manage to avoid Filch.  
  
But what this also meant was that as soon as she realized that she had forgotten her things, she would have to make yet another trip down to the library, still unprotected, still vulnerable, to retrieve them... he knew her well enough by now to be certain of the fact that she would not leave her school things- or the precious invisibility cloak- in the library all night.  
  
But there was something Draco could do about that; he could prevent her from undertaking that second dangerous journey through the halls by returning her things to her.  
  
He stood and packed up first his own things, then hers; debated for a moment, then pulled out the invisibility cloak, slung both bags over his shoulder, and threw the cloak over himself, bags and all, vanishing from sight. It wasn't that he needed to use it to reach Gryffindor Tower undetected... but when given a golden opportunity to wear it, he wasn't one to pass it up.  
  
Now if only he should happen to come across Potter skulking about the school... his life really would be complete.  
  
00000  
  
He appeared with a flourish from beneath the cloak, right in front of the portrait of the fat lady, who thankfully had been snoozing in her frame, just on the verge of reclaiming the lovely, deep sleep she'd been enjoying before the Head Girl- (high maintenance one, that was; always had been... ruddy brilliant and a credit to her House, but well given to fits of hysterics)- had come barging through, half shouting, half sobbing the password.  
  
And now this- this, she thought, as she came awake with a jerk and a snort, just in time to watch a pale boy she'd never seen before stuffing something that might have been a cloak back into one of the two school bags he carried- this was really too much.  
  
Feeling put out already, she surveyed the boy with patent dislike as he straightened up and faced her, her eyes lingering on his rumpled green and silver tie with open hostility.  
  
Draco, seeing the expression on the portrait lady's face, allowed his own face to settle into the most impudent smirk in his repertoire.  
  
This went on for a few solid minutes; portrait glaring, boy smirking, neither willing to speak first and thereby lose the upper hand in their staring contest.  
  
Eventually, it was the fat lady who spoke; the boy looked as if he could have stood there all night, insolent little whelp that he was, and she wanted to get back to sleep, for crying out loud.  
  
"If you think for one minute I'm going to allow you through, young man, you had just better think again. You look an unsavory sort, even for a Slytherin, so you had best not bother asking, and be on your way."  
  
Very slowly and deliberately, Draco straightened his tie. He then reached into a pocket and withdrew a small, shiny object that he studied for a moment as if he'd never seen it before- unhurried, indolent, flicking a particle of dust off the object's surface with an impeccably manicured fingernail- then, dipping his head, he affixed it to the front of his shirt and looked up, only marginally, surveying the portrait lady through the fringe of silver hair that now fell forward, over his brow.  
  
His eyes glinted maliciously at the look of dawning horror on her face as she recognized the object for what it was; a Head Boy badge. She knew full well that as Head Boy, he could force his way in if he so desired. It took her a long moment to school her face back into an expression of unconcerned disdain... and it was obviously a thin mask over her outrage at having been trumped thus.  
  
Slowly, Draco arched a silver brow. "If _you_ think," he replied coolly, "for one minute that I would deign to enter, then you are seriously mistaken, madam. All I want to know is whether Granger came through here a moment ago."  
  
The fat lady simply stared at him for a moment, her disdainful expression vanishing, to be replaced by uncertainty.  
  
"Hermione Granger," Draco prompted; "the Head Girl. Has she been through here recently?"  
  
Now the fat lady was regaining her composure, and the look on her face quickly turned more hostile than ever. "So it's you who is responsible for the state she was in," she exclaimed. "I might have known... wretched boy!"  
  
But Draco, having deposited Hermione's bag on the floor directly beneath the portrait, was already turning away. Hermione was indeed within Gryffindor Tower, safe and sound; that was all he had wanted to know. He suppressed the rush of relief that threatened to swamp him; _natural to look out for one's property. Only natural to look out for one's property._  
  
That's all it was.  
  
"Thank you madam," he called mockingly over his shoulder as he departed, "you told me everything I needed to know." And he left the fat lady spluttering with indignation and turned his feet toward his own territory, immensely grateful that the Slytherin common room was guarded merely by a password-activated stretch of blank wall. Portraits were bloody infuriating!  
  
Then again, so were Gryffindors, so he supposed it made sense that some sort of sick symbiotic relationship would exist between the two.  
  
00000  
  
What followed for Draco was by far the most torturous twenty-four hours he had ever experienced. The reason was quite simple, really; Draco Malfoy was not accustomed to being ignored by girls. Especially not girls he had displayed an overt interest in. And _most_ especially not girls he had kissed the night before- and who had, moreover, kissed him back, clearly indicating that the interest was mutual.  
  
At this point, according to all his past experience- which consisted, admittedly, mainly of Pansy, and a couple of the other Slytherin girls- she ought to have been stealing glances at him, blushing and looking away when he caught her eye, whispering to her friends, and perhaps becoming bold enough toward the end of the day to blow him a kiss in class, then hide her face in her hands and giggle madly. By dinner time she ought to have sidled up to him- he conceded that, given the fact they were in rival Houses, she would have had to be quite a bit more discreet than Pansy about this, but had no doubt she was clever enough to have managed it if she had wanted to- and indicated a wish to see him again that night. She should have been, in other words, acting like- well, like a _girl_. A normal whispery, giggly, flirty girl.  
  
It was the only kind of behavior he knew to expect, and it was the kind of behavior that ultimately drove him mad, actually... but not until well after he had gotten what he wanted- and he wasn't even close to getting all that he wanted from Granger.  
  
So he was at a loss as to how to react to what appeared to be complete indifference on her part. She never met his eyes once that day, though they shared two classes- one of which was a double period- and he gave her no lack of opportunities. Nor did she, as far as he could tell, interact differently with her friends or anyone else, for that matter.  
  
Though come to think of it, considering that her two best friends were male, and Draco's worst enemies at Hogwarts, he supposed it would have been more than a little disturbing had the three of them been whispering and giggling together while shooting him furtive looks. Perhaps he ought to be grateful, after all, that Granger was apparently capable of doing something he had previously thought beyond the capability of any person of the female persuasion; keeping her mouth shut about her first kiss- for he was almost positive that last night had been her first real kiss.  
  
But damn it all to hell, she ought to be giving him _some_ indication that it had affected her! She had certainly reacted strongly enough last night... and now was playing it off as though nothing had ever happened. And not only the kiss, either; she was acting as if none of it had happened- the weeks of study and banter in the library at night that had led to a gradual defrosting of their relationship during the day until they had begun sharing meaningful glances when something was discussed in class that they had studied together by night. Their relationship, indeed, though silent by day, had become almost... friendly.  
  
Now all that had been wiped away in the course of a single day. It was terribly disconcerting. Draco found himself almost wishing she would, at the very least, shoot him a good, solid glare as she had used to... at least that would be something... and anything would be better than this... this nothingness, this total void of emotion.  
  
Thus passed the slowest day in the life of a boy who had previously been spoilt in all things- not least of all, attention. Whether positive or negative, Draco was accustomed to receiving attention from virtually everyone at Hogwarts. Hermione's refusal to grant him any kind of attention whatsoever was driving him to distraction.  
  
00000  
  
Little did he guess just how strongly Hermione had, in fact, been affected. She had scraped barely an hour or two of sleep the night before, having spent most of the night (after remembering that she had left her bag in the library and then finding it directly beneath the portrait hole, nearly tripping over it, in fact, as she'd climbed hastily out into the corridor) taking it by turns to first pace her room madly, and then lie fully dressed in bed, on top of her covers, staring at the ceiling with wide, glassy, slightly panicked eyes, whispering a mantra of "we can't do this, this is wrong," the entire time.  
  
She had only managed to make it through class that day by first casting a concealment charm on her puffy, red eyes, then visiting Madam Pomfrey before breakfast, requesting a massive dose of PepperUp Potion, citing too much late night studying. It wasn't the first time the Head Girl had approached the mediwitch with such a request, and she had complied, though grumbling and lecturing all the while she had been preparing and administering the potion.  
  
But even with the help of the PepperUp, Hermione had quickly begun to fade, and her seeming indifference to Draco had been, in large part, due to the fact that she could barely stay alert enough to focus on her professors, and had no extra energy whatsoever to devote to anything or anyone else- even the cause of her present state, Draco.  
  
Which is not to say that she wasn't trying to ignore him; she was. It's just that she wouldn't have been half so successful at it had she not been completely and utterly, dead exhausted.  
  
And yet, back in her room at the end of the day, she found that tired as she was, sleep was a lost cause. Her conscience was niggling at her, insisting that she was treating him poorly; that, especially in light of the fact that he had returned her bag to Gryffindor Tower, she owed it to Draco to talk to him- to thank him, at least, for having done that. And as long as the two of them were talking, she figured, it really would be for the best to discuss just exactly what the hell had happened last night- and what it meant for them.  
  
If she were going to be thoroughly honest with herself, she would have to admit that she had liked it.  
  
Quite a lot.  
  
But that was neither here nor there. What mattered was that this- whatever this was- couldn't be allowed to happen. It was completely illogical to continue with it. It was one thing to have their little study sessions- which had turned out, as Draco had predicted, to be quite mutually beneficial- they had each learned valuable things from the other that she was sure would be of use when the N.E.W.T.s finally arrived, and then there was the side effect that their relationship as Head Boy and Girl had become considerably less strained since the study sessions had begun; they were having a far easier and more pleasant time working together in that capacity.  
  
But to complicate things with... with... romance... (_is that what this is? Romance?_) was just plain foolish. Romance took time and energy away from schoolwork, and with N.E.W.T.s fast approaching, she couldn't afford that.  
  
No, it would be best to clear the air, set things straight, and then get back to business as usual. Head duties and studying. Studying and more studying. There would be time for romance after Hogwarts, she reminded herself. And when it came- when romance truly came for her and swept her away- she severely doubted that it would be with Draco Malfoy.  
  
Okay, yes, so there was something immensely appealing about this new side he'd been showing her lately, but... what could they possibly offer each other in the long run? They were from completely different backgrounds, had completely different philosophies, and were standing on opposite sides of a brewing conflict that was already rocking the wizarding world- that had been doing so for years, since before either of them had been born, in fact- and that promised only to get more violent, more explosive, more deadly, before it ended one way or the other.  
  
So her mind was quite made up. There would be no romance; not here at Hogwarts, not now when she needed to be concentrating solely on her upcoming exit exams, and most certainly _not_ with Draco Malfoy, no matter how dangerously, roguishly appealing he may be.  
  
Uh-uh. No way. Forget about it.  
  
Her decision was made, and it was final. All that remained was to lay down the law to him.  
  
00000  
  
As if we can choose when and where true romance will strike us. As if we can seek to control a force that powerful, that primal.  
  
Half an hour later, they were kissing again.  
  
00000  
  
She had slipped under the invisibility cloak and made her way down to the library, rightly guessing that though they had made no prior arrangement for tonight, she would find Draco there.  
  
But though she had expected to find him in the library, she was caught completely off guard by just how she found him; sitting at the table that had become "their" study table over the course of the past several weeks- the table she had first invited him to join her at, the only table they had used since- his arms folded across the open pages of a book and his silvery head laid down upon them, fast asleep.  
  
He didn't even stir as she approached, and it was so unlike him to leave himself this unguarded, this vulnerable, that she wondered, frowning, if something was wrong, if he was sick- and when she drew nearer still she saw that he did, in fact, look slightly ill- or at the very least, somewhere well beyond exhausted; his hair was uncharacteristically messy, and his face was turned sideways on his criss-crossed arms so that she could see there were dark smudges under his eyes.  
  
I don't believe he slept last night, either, she thought, and the thought surprised her; she had convinced herself, and with very little difficulty, really, that Draco had just been toying with her last night... she couldn't possibly mean anything to him, not really- and that conviction was what had been going to make what she planned to say to him tonight so easy.  
  
But if he had spent as sleepless a night as she had, well then that suggested otherwise, now didn't it?  
  
And THAT complicated things immensely.  
  
Nevertheless, her heart was still her own at that point.  
  
It was her own as she walked softly around the table and settled herself in her usual chair on the other side; it was her own as she placed her wand next to his, which was glowing only faintly, putting out a mere fraction of its usual amount of light, then leaned forward, cupping her chin in her left palm and, with a flick of the fingers of her right hand, sent a gentle breeze across the table to ruffle Draco's hair.  
  
"Malfoy," she whispered.  
  
"Mmh." A tiny furrow appeared between his near colorless eyebrows and he raised his head a fraction of an inch and shook it, just once, as if to clear it. Then those startling, pale eyes of his opened; blinked; focused on her, and her heart was still her own then too, though it was a very close thing.  
  
It was in the next instant, as a slow, sleepy, and entirely genuine smile spread across his face- the first genuine smile he had ever allowed Hermione to see, rarer than that precious metal, platinum, that his hair so resembled- that her traitorous heart began to flee her....  
  
And when he spoke, in a voice she'd never heard before, a low and husky sleep-voice; when he said simply, "Hey... you're here. I didn't think you'd come," and stifled- barely- a humungous yawn- it was a done deal, then. Her heart no longer belonged to herself; it was the property of the fair- haired, sleep-tousled boy sitting across the table from her, whose smile was fading and who was now regarding her solemnly with those mist-gray eyes, waiting for her to speak.  
  
"I-" she stammered, "um... came because we... we needed to talk. About- er- last night?"  
  
She hated the way it came out sounding like a question instead of a statement. She had never before felt so thrown off-guard by a boy. And she knew boys- she spent most of her time with them. She had for seven years. Her best friends were boys, and in all her years at Hogwarts, she had never been left dateless when a dance came around; first there had been Victor Krum in her fourth year, then Terry Boot of Ravenclaw in sixth and just earlier this year, Ron. (There had been no dances, of course, under Umbridge's reign of terror in her fifth year.) But none of these boys had had an effect on her like this.  
  
This was something different....  
  
Something dangerous....  
  
Something scary, because she no longer felt herself completely in control of her emotions, of her choices, of her life....  
  
And it was entirely irresistible.  
  
A slightly wicked gleam had come into Draco's eyes. "Yes, Granger?" he prompted, in a deceptively mild tone. "What about last night would you care to discuss?"  
  
"I..."  
  
A voice inside her head, the voice of her last shred of reason, of logic, of sanity, cried out, _TELL him! Tell him what you came to say! That this is wrong, all wrong, that it will never work, that it can't go on- for God's sake, tell him now! This is your last chance to save yourself!  
_  
Though there would come a time later when she would curse herself often and heartily for disregarding that voice, she was perceptive enough now to realize the truth of the matter; and the truth of the matter was, she belonged to him. She couldn't even begin to fathom when the process had begun, but it had just been completed, and there it was.  
  
She was his.  
  
So what she said, in a queer, cracked little voice, was, "I just wanted to... thank you... for returning my bag."  
  
00000  
  
She was his.  
  
Draco saw and recognized the fundamental shift deep inside her; he saw it in her eyes, recognized it in the way her body went suddenly very, very still, heard it in the unsteady quality of her voice when she spoke.  
  
She was his. Holy shit. It was what he had wanted for weeks. So what the hell did he do now?  
  
"Granger," he whispered, his voice more gentle than he had ever allowed her- or anyone, for that matter- to hear it, "come here."  
  
And she did so; she obeyed him unquestioningly, and with only a minimum of hesitation, standing and walking slowly around the table as he pushed his own chair back from it, stopping, uncertainly, in front of him, her hair a dark waterfall of curls, flowing over her shoulders and down her back, and rather than standing as well, he turned in his chair so that he faced her, and reached out both arms, catching her around the waist and pulling her down on top of him so that she sat facing him, straddling his lap. She didn't resist- and a good, long look into her wide eyes, nearly black in the dim light, told him that she had also recognized the shift within herself and that it had shocked her on a very deep level; and that her shock was the reason for her compliance.  
  
"Granger," he said- almost groaned- "Christ, but I want you so damn much," and he plunged both his hands into that thick, dark, luxurious hair as he'd been aching to do for a long, long time, as he'd already done countless times over the past few weeks in his dreams, and began to pull her head slowly yet inexorably down toward his-  
  
Just before their lips met she resisted the pressure he was exerting on her; resisted it just long enough to whisper four short words- a request both simple and profound.  
  
"Draco," she whispered (the first time she had ever used his given name, and God, how it thrilled him, the sound of it on her lips), "don't hurt me."  
  
And he felt those words resonate right down to his soul, but he made no reply- just brought his mouth to hers, and the kiss exploded upon both of them with a fiery passion that put their previous one to shame. 


	6. Chapter 6: Hogsmeade

(A/N: Okay... this chapter has Draco acting in a rather unethical manner... and yes, I'm aware of that, I wrote it. Hellooo, he's DRACO! I never promised to make him an angel in this fic... I'm trying to keep him somewhat in character here, for the time being at least, and as despicable as his actions may seem, I truly do think that there is a possibility he could and would act this way. So: what way, you ask? Well, read on and you'll see, chickadee...)  
  
00000  
  
And life was good, for a while.  
  
00000  
  
By unspoken mutual agreement, they stepped up their study sessions-cum- snogging sessions from every other night to every night except for Saturday and Sunday, when they were both expected by their friends to be elsewhere... truthfully, they would have preferred to have spent these nights in one another's company as well.  
  
They justified this to themselves by rationalizing that as their exams loomed ever nearer they needed ever more study time... but really, they were hardly getting in any more study time than they had been previous to that first kiss; all the extra time went to their physical exploration of each other.  
  
Not that it went all that far- not nearly as far as Draco would have liked to take it, anyway. Hermione drew the line firmly at deep kissing and some petting- but nothing below the waist- and complained that she was distracted enough from her schoolwork as it was.  
  
Though her determined slapping away of his hands kept him in a state of nearly constant high arousal over the next few weeks, and he simply would not have tolerated such treatment from anyone else, he found that he actually didn't mind terribly much giving her some time and space... he justified it repeatedly to himself by reminding himself how much sweeter the reward would be in the end.  
  
As a matter of fact, he was in an uncommonly good mood these days- so much so that it was even noted by his fellow Slytherins. Ironically enough, it was actually Pansy who benefited most from Draco's newfound good humor, for he was inclined to be far more patient with her than usual during the day, and, due to his perpetual sexual frustration at Hermione's hands, was quite a bit more receptive to her advances at night, as well.  
  
He even went so far as to make an advance of his own on one particular Friday night, when he returned from the library around one in the morning to find Pansy alone in the common room, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, deep in conversation with a friend who attended Durmstrang, via the floo network.  
  
His latest snog session with Hermione fresh in his mind, he approached Pansy from behind, wrapped his arms about her and pulled her effortlessly to her feet- then, ignoring her cry of surprise, took her firmly by the arm and led her, without a word, away from the fireplace and her shocked friend, and straight into his room, from whence she did not emerge until well past breakfast time the next morning, a bounce in her step and a triumphant gleam in her eye- a virgin no more.  
  
Following that incident, Draco often found Pansy waiting up for him in the common room at night, and he never failed to take her up on such unspoken invitations.  
  
It never even occurred to him that Hermione, had she known about this, would have looked upon his new habit of first snogging her, and then shagging Pansy senseless, with rather extreme disfavor- as far as he was concerned, Hermione and Pansy were two entirely different aspects of his life, having nothing to do with one another at all (well... except for the fact he now regularly worked up "an appetite" with the one, and then satisfied his "hunger" with the other). Pansy was the girl he still intended to marry, and Hermione was...  
  
Hermione was an addiction.  
  
00000  
  
Draco was getting impatient.  
  
"Damn it all, Granger," he muttered under his breath, checking his watch for the umpteenth time and wondering whether he could possibly be in the right place... of all the locations for her to have requested he meet her on this lovely Hogsmeade Saturday, he had never expected her to come up with this particular rendezvous spot- granted, the two of them would need to be discreet if they intended to spend an afternoon together in the little wizarding village, but really- the basement of Honeydukes sweet shop? This was nothing short of ridiculous.  
  
He'd been down here twenty minutes already. There was a damp chill in the air, the stone walls were moist, and if he had to crouch beneath the rickety staircase one more time while the shop owner's fat husband came trundling down it in search of a flat of fizzing whizbies or a crate of cockroach clusters...  
  
He swore violently and resumed his pacing, which he had only ceased long enough to check the time. What he wouldn't give to be sitting comfortably in the Three Broomsticks, drinking a Butterbeer right now...  
  
He stopped abruptly and whirled about, his heart skipping a beat at the sound of something heavy scraping against the floor behind him. What he saw then rendered him motionless with astonishment- a heavy trapdoor in the cellar floor, which was so well disguised he had not previously noticed it, was being pushed open from beneath.  
  
And a second later a hooded head emerged, followed quickly by a slim body clad in jeans and an oversized sweatshirt- _did she borrow that from Potter or Weasley?_ Draco wondered, with a sudden and bitter twinge of what could only be jealousy- (_only looking out for my property, and no-one had damn well better be moving in on it- especially fucking Weasley after the way he treated her that night_, he thought furiously) as she hoisted herself out of the underground passage with a lithe, easy grace.  
  
His expression was dark as she pulled the trapdoor shut, dusted herself off and straightened up to face him- but unlike Pansy, who would probably have reacted to the look on his face by taking a step backward and stammering an apology for her tardiness, Hermione did not seem abashed in the least.  
  
"Where did you get that sweatshirt?" was the first thing out of his mouth.  
  
She appeared surprised by the question. "This old thing?" she asked, looking down. "It belonged to Victor Krum. He gave it to me the summer between fourth and fifth year."  
  
On closer inspection, Draco could make out the words BULGARIA QUIDDITCH in badly faded gold lettering against an equally timeworn burgundy background. He felt a rush of relief. Krum was old news. No worries there.  
  
The next thing that caught his attention was her hair. "What's this?" he asked, reaching out to finger a single long, thick, smooth plait that hung forward over her shoulder, emerging from the hood of the sweatshirt, which was still pulled up. He pushed the hood back and saw that her hair was French-braided, pulled severely back from her face.  
  
"I've never seen you wear a braid before," he commented, unaware of the small frown which had settled over his features.  
  
"Oh. Well-" and now Hermione did sound a bit self-conscious- "my hair, you know, can... attract attention. People recognize it. I though it would be best today if I... tamed it down a bit. Do... you like it?"  
  
This question threw Draco entirely off-guard. Hermione had never done anything so innately "girly" as ask his opinion of her appearance before. And truth be told, he didn't like it. Not one little bit. Hermione's unruly hair had grown on him to the point where it was the very first thing he scanned for in any room he entered at Hogwarts. He had even caught himself, much to his chagrin, unconsciously scanning the Slytherin common room for it on more than one occasion.  
  
But she was right; it made sense for her to wear it "tamed down", as she put it, today. Besides which, he knew enough about girls to understand that he should never give a negative answer to an appearance-related query. Ever. Not unless he wished the girl in question to cease speaking to him permanently. And that was the farthest thing to what he wanted from Granger. Speaking with Granger, he had come to find, was almost as pleasant as kissing her.  
  
"I... it's-" _Think fast, Malfoy, damn it to hell_- "it's just different," he said, managing a rather convincing smile, and then, seeing from her expression that this wasn't good enough, elaborated- "it's very sophisticated. Just... great!"  
  
This seemed to satisfy her.  
  
"Shall we go, then?" she asked. "I'd like to start the afternoon with a Butterbeer, I think."  
  
"No," Draco said, a bit waspishly, "I was rather hoping we could spend the whole time here in this cellar, with an occasional fat man for company-"  
  
As if on cue, the door above banged open. Draco grabbed Hermione by the arm and yanked her bodily under the stairs as the shop proprietor's husband tromped down the steps, grabbed up the nearest case of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans, and huffed back up them again.  
  
Draco, crouched beside Hermione, graced her with a pointed glare... but only for a second. She looked so inviting, kneeling there on the stone floor in her faded old sweatshirt and jeans dusty from whatever secret passage she had traversed to meet him here, her dark eyes large in her face as she tried to keep her breathing silent, that before he quite knew what he was doing, and even before the cellar door slammed shut once more above them, he had pulled her into a fierce, possessive kiss.  
  
00000  
  
"Where'd that passage come from, anyway?" he asked her as they sipped Butterbeer at the farthest back table in the Three Broomsticks. She was facing away from the door so that all anyone walking into the pub would see of her was her thick, dark braid... but no one was paying them any mind, in any case. Draco had intentionally been short tempered with his Housemates in the days leading up to this outing (which hadn't been difficult, as the days leading up to this outing had been full of N.E.W.T.s, which were, praise the Lord, over now- the reason for this celebratory Hogsmeade weekend) and so was reasonably sure that no Slytherins would approach him today.  
  
As for the Gryffindors, Hermione had told him that she didn't expect many of them to pay any amount of attention to "Draco Malfoy's Date" (she had blushed prettily, looking down while speaking those particular words); it was Harry and Ron who gave her the most cause for concern, and they had come into Hogsmeade at ten in the morning because they had Quidditch practice in the afternoon- it being about one o' clock at the moment, she thought that they should be heading back to school right about now, if they hadn't already. The whole reason she had taken the passage into town was to avoid passing them as she was coming and they were going, for she had told them that morning that she had a massive headache brought on by the exams, and would be resting in her room all day. She had wished them a nice time in town and a successful practice, and had asked not to be disturbed, claiming that she would likely spend most of the day sleeping, due to the fact that during N.E.W.T. week she had managed to scrape together perhaps twelve hours of sleep total.  
  
This last, at least, was absolutely true, and she was currently operating in a state of massive sleep deprivation... but nevertheless, Draco's invitation had seemed too good for her to pass up.  
  
So here they both were.  
  
"The passage originates behind a statue in one of the corridors at school," Hermione said. "I can take you back that way, if you want to see for yourself." She arched an eyebrow; an expression that came almost as naturally to her as it did to him. "Now you tell me- how did you manage to give _your_ entourage the slip, hm?"  
  
Draco gave her that trademark smirk. "That excuse you gave to Potter and Weasley- being bedridden as a result of exams? Well, it just so happens that for Crabbe and Goyle it's true. A straight week of tests took a hell of a toll on those boys. Who knows though, maybe they even passed one or two." He looked thoughtful for a moment, then repeated, "maybe."  
  
Hermione forced a smile, but was unable to conjure up any genuine feelings of amusement in regard to the brutish boys in question, even at their own expense. She had felt nothing toward them since Valentine's night save deepest, purest loathing.  
  
"As for Pansy," Draco continued, "I set her up at the beauty shop for a full day of pampering. She's not going to set foot outside of it until five o' clock at the earliest- I saw to that. So she's of no concern, and... I fully expect the rest of my Housemates to give me a wide berth today."  
  
"Yes, I noticed you had stepped up the charm this past week... so that was for my benefit, was it?"  
  
Draco's eyes narrowed. No good could possibly come of Granger reaching the conclusion that he would go so far out of his way on _her_ account as to deliberately alienate his own people... even if such a conclusion would just so happen to be correct. It could give a girl swelled head, and that wouldn't do... Granger was not, after all, even a romantic interest of his, strictly speaking; she was merely a physical conquest in the making.  
  
Physical conquest. That was all.  
  
"Don't flatter yourself," he growled.  
  
Hermione sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. "Wouldn't dream of it," she said, but Draco caught a glimmer in her eye that he didn't know quite how to react to- whether to be disturbed, or amused.  
  
Because she wasn't buying it.  
  
He had underestimated her once again; she had seen straight through him.  
  
Damn, but the girl was smart.  
  
And perceptive.  
  
And beautiful.  
  
And fearless.  
  
And independent.  
  
And witty.  
  
And proud.  
  
_Your perfect mate, in other words_, whispered that traitorous corner of his mind that seemed to have awakened as a result of his fever and most trusted professor's insidious words.  
  
No! Treason! Heresy! Shame to his family! Granger was a dalliance, and that was all, damnit, that was all.  
  
He shook his head to clear it, and when he met Hermione's eyes again, was unnerved by the keenness with which she was regarding him. Finishing his Butterbeer in a single great gulp, he slammed the empty tankard down on the table and got to his feet.  
  
"Let's take a stroll through town, Granger," he drawled, in an attempt at his usual nonchalance. "It's a beautiful day."  
  
00000  
  
No other students approached them all that long and sun-drenched afternoon. The two of them were entirely free to wander the town hand-in-hand, pausing in front of shop windows, and, when either of their fancies were caught, entering to browse the shops themselves. They spent half an hour in the quaint Hogsmeade library, which was on a tree-lined street just outside the center of the village; a quiet little lane that turned residential just past the library itself. The day's crowning glory was the last thing they did; Draco rented a rowboat from the small village dock which was situated on the opposite end of the Hogwarts lake from the school itself, and rowed them far out into the water to watch the sun go down... and snog each other senseless, of course.  
  
The sky was dark crimson fading to violet as they tied the boat back up to the dock. It was nearly seven o' clock; dinner was being served even now up at Hogwarts, and by the time they would reach the school, it would be over. It was also a good two hours past the time Draco had estimated that Pansy would have been released from the beauty shop, and he had the distinct feeling that she would be looking for him, excited to show him the results of her day at the salon. For this reason- and because he was undeniably curious- he and Hermione decided to take the Honeydukes passage back to school.  
  
Hermione led the way, of course, holding her illuminated wand aloft and leaving Draco to follow along behind. She was entirely unaware, of course, of the frank and admiring appraisal he was giving her as she walked along briskly, familiar, as she was, with every twist and dip and turn and climb of the tunnel.  
  
Draco was thinking that he never would have believed, before this day, that any girl on earth could make a pair of faded, dusty Muggle jeans and a shapeless, oversized sweatshirt look sexy... and yet, by God, Granger had done it- the undeniable truth was right there, sauntering confidently along in front of him. The way those jeans hugged the curves of her hips, and the way those hips swayed as she walked, her long braid, now hanging straight down her back, swaying in time to them... it was completely artless, completely genuine, she didn't even know she was doing it, and that was what drove him crazy with desire; the fact that she was sexy without meaning to be, that her sexiness came in large part from her very wholesomeness- from the fact that she was so unaffected, so pure.  
  
So very different from Pansy, whose hips swayed too, oh yes, but with a much practiced precision- a gait that was intended to catch the eye of the opposite sex, and Draco in particular. And it did; in fact, at times he even enjoyed it, but it could never measure up to this- he had to admit that to himself if he were going to be completely honest. There was no question, really, that he much preferred Hermione's straightforward and unintentionally sexy stride to Pansy's seductive strut.  
  
Granger was just so very different from his intended... _different and... superior?_ Whispered that traitorous corner of his mind.  
  
NO. He shook his head furiously. No matter how intelligent or sexually appealing, a Gryffindor mudblood could never be considered superior to his pureblooded, pedigreed, Slytherin betrothed. Never.  
  
These thoughts were getting dangerous. It was time to complete the conquest, he decided, and have done with her. Get her out of his system; out from under his skin. He couldn't take this much longer and still hold on to his priorities in life!  
  
00000  
  
And so it was that the moment they both emerged from the hump of the one- eyed witch, before Hermione had a chance to say anything as maddeningly wholesome as "goodnight and thank you for a lovely day", he pushed her, a bit more roughly than he had intended, against the stone wall of the corridor (though he took great care to place one hand between the wall and the back of her head, cushioning it from what could potentially have been a painful smack) and was kissing her deeply, almost desperately, before he really even knew what he was doing. It was dangerous to be doing this at school, out in the open in a corridor- dangerous and forbidden and thrilling. It was long moments before they pulled apart, as if by mutual agreement, and yet with very apparent mutual reluctance. They were both breathing hard, and Draco leaned his forehead against hers, his arms still wrapped possessively about her body.  
  
"Come to my room tonight," he panted. "Stay the night with me. Say you will."  
  
Her eyes widened. "Draco-"  
  
"N.E.W.T.s are over," he cut her off. "We have time now. Say you'll come. Please. Hermione."  
  
It was the first time he had used her given name, and it had the effect he had hoped for. She gave a tiny, barely audible sigh- someone who hadn't been specifically watching for it would have missed it entirely- and let her head fall forward onto his shoulder.  
  
He tightened his left arm around her waist, raised his right hand and began stroking slowly the length of her thick, dark braid; a gentle, soothing gesture, reassuring her that this was right, this was good, and that she should say yes.  
  
_Say yes, say yes, damn it Granger, I want you so much I'm going out of my mind, just say yes..._  
  
"Yes," she whispered finally, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. "Yes, I'll come. I want to come. Draco."  
  
"Thank God," he said without thinking, and then was horrified for an instant that he had allowed his relief to show so clearly- but only for an instant, because she raised her head then, and her eyes were luminous, and he realized that he could have said nothing better to further his cause had he tried. He drew her away from the wall, until they were standing in the middle of the corridor, then lowered his head and spoke urgently into her ear.  
  
"Meet me in the library at midnight. Wear your cloak. We'll-"  
  
He cut off suddenly, stiffening, sucking in a sharp breath, his eyes arrested by something behind Hermione, at the end of the corridor.  
  
Pansy. To be exact.  
  
She had just come around the corner, and stopped stock still, staring at him.  
  
"Draco?" she asked uncertainly. Even at a distance of several yards, he could see her eyes widen as comprehension struck; could see her face flush. She started toward them without another word, her expression grim, hurt and angry. This was a disaster.  
  
Draco thought fast.  
  
Hermione, watching the emotions play on his face, started to turn to see for herself what had thrown him so badly. Instantly his hands came up and caught her by the arms, close up to her shoulders, stopping her. His grip was so hard it was nearly painful. Holding her steady with one hand, he removed the other and held it up to Pansy, an authoritative gesture, halting her in her tracks. But he could tell she wouldn't stay still for long.  
  
Barely moving his lips, he murmured to Hermione, "slap me."  
  
"_What?_" she whispered incredulously.  
  
"Pansy is right behind you. She looks mad enough to spit nails."  
  
Now it was Hermione's eyes that widened.  
  
"She doesn't know who you are; she can't," Draco continued, speaking low and fast. "You need to slap me, then run past me with your hands over your face as if you were crying. Do not turn around, whatever you do. I'll see you at midnight. Now for God's sake, slap me!"  
  
Hermione swallowed, working up her nerve. Then, just as Pansy started forward again, she wrenched herself back a step from Draco, hauled off and slapped him as hard as she could across the face, then, without turning, took off running in the opposite direction from whence Pansy was advancing, shouldering Draco out of her way as she did so, roughly enough to nearly knock him over. A second later she was gone around the corner at the far end of the hall.  
  
It was a marvelously convincing performance, Draco thought with some pride, even as he raised a hand gingerly to his stinging cheek. _That's my girl!_  
  
But no... that wasn't true. _This_ was his girl, standing before him, looking confused and angry and wounded to the core. This was the girl he was going to build a future with- regardless of whether he would have chosen her for himself. (Which he would not.) Didn't matter; the choice had been made, and he intended to abide by it just as much as he ever had; his family was counting on him to do right by them; he was the only child, the only heir, and he would not let them down, he thought fiercely. Granger changed nothing.  
  
Nothing.  
  
And so he needed to fix this, pronto.  
  
"Pansy," he said, and crossed the distance between himself and her in three swift strides, engulfing her in a tight hug and planting a kiss squarely on the top of her head, regardless of how she stiffened in his arms. "I missed you today."  
  
She pulled away and looked up at him, and he saw hurt battling with hope on her unpretty face.  
  
"Draco," she said, uncertainly, "who- what was-"  
  
"It was nothing," he said smoothly. "I'm sorry you had to see it. It was just some ridiculous Hufflepuff sixth-year, throwing herself at me." He sighed theatrically. "I suppose you might as well know, it happens a fair amount. But-" his face creased into a slight frown- "I should hope you know me better, Pans, than to think for even one moment that I'd consider-"  
  
"Well, I didn't know she was a Hufflepuff," Pansy sniffed forlornly. "I didn't know what to think!"  
  
"I know," he replied, "which is why I'm sorry you saw it. I hate the thought of you in distress."  
  
Pansy snuffled again, but looked slightly mollified. "What did you say to her, anyway?" she asked. "You know, to make her slap you like that?"  
  
"Just that I wouldn't sully myself with a filthy Hufflepuff- a mudblood too, by the look of those dirty Muggle jeans- if she paid me. Really, Pans, I'd rather spare you the gory details. And- hey- don't do that to yourself," he chided gently then, cupping her cheek in one hand and wiping away a single tear that had over spilled her eye with his thumb. "You'll ruin a whole day's work if you cry. Come on, let me see what you've had done today. Show me how gorgeous you look!"  
  
Stepping back from her, he eyed her appreciatively from head to toe. "Exquisite," he pronounced, "though really, everything you've had done amounts to no more than gilding the lily. You were beautiful to begin with."  
  
He breathed a sigh of relief as she finally graced him with a smile- small, but real.  
  
He held out his arms, and this time she came into them unhesitatingly. Clasping her to him, he murmured in her ear, "I want to know if every inch of you looks as good as what I can see right now." He surreptitiously checked his watch- seven-forty-five. Plenty of time for a romp and a shower before he was due to meet Granger in the library. And if he satiated himself with Pansy first, he'd be better able to draw out his experience with Hermione later- be patient, go slow, savor every second. Of course, he'd need to think of some excuse to get Pansy out of his room before midnight when she was accustomed to spending the night with him after making love... but he didn't think that would be too difficult. Whatever story he came up with, she wouldn't question him too closely. She never did. She couldn't see through his facades.  
  
Unlike Granger.  
  
"What do you say," he whispered suggestively, "we go back to my room and I finish my... inspection there? Must be sure, after all, that those salon girls pampered every- inch- of you, as I instructed them to do."  
  
Pansy giggled and nodded against his chest, then gave a seductive little shimmy against him before straightening back up. Grinning, he slung an arm about her shoulder, and they headed off in the opposite direction to the one Hermione had taken; the Slytherin prince and princess, intended for each other almost since birth.  
  
"What was that Hufflepuff's name, anyway?" Pansy purred as they walked, no longer sounding even remotely upset. "I might like to have a... little chat with her tomorrow."  
  
Draco snorted. "You think I could be bothered to learn a little twat like that's name?"  
  
"Oh." Pansy sounded disappointed, but then brightened up again almost instantly. "Well, never mind," she said, "I'll recognize that braid if I see it again-" her voice and eyes hardened- "and if I do, I'll yank the damn thing right off. Hufflepuff mess about with _my_ man..."  
  
In spite of himself, Draco threw a quick, worried glance over his shoulder in the direction Hermione had gone. He now had yet one more reason to hope she would never wear her hair that way again. 


	7. Chapter 7: Love Hurts

(A/N: THIS STORY IS NO LONGER R-RATED FOR LANGUAGE ONLY. THAT'S RIGHT, FOLKS, THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SEXUAL CONTENT, SO CONSIDER YOURSELVES WARNED! Now; two quick questions that needed answering. First: yes, I made up Draco's middle name, and it was intended to be horrible, lol. I just thought it sounded... suitably haughty, I suppose, for a Malfoy name. Besides which, I know so many people with the most God-awful middle names it's ridiculous, like parents figure they just have carte-blanche to do their worst, since not that many people will ever hear it, I guess. I went to high school with a girl whose middle name was Hildegard. Hildegard, okay??? She was Irish! There was no reason for Hildegard! Anyway, I digress... that's the story of Draco's middle name. If anyone knows what his "real" middle name is, according to JKR, I'd love to hear it. (Personally, I would hazard a guess that it's probably Lucius.) Other question: NO, Hermione absolutely does not know that Draco is "getting it on" with Pansy at the same time he is pursuing her; she would never tolerate that. Never. She is aware that Pansy is besotted with Draco, because the whole school is aware that Pansy is besotted with Draco... but that's all. Okay, so... onto the cough-SEXstuff-cough er, chapter...) 000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000  
  
There was no denying the sudden and intense wash of relief Draco felt when the library door creaked open and then closed again, seemingly of its own accord. He had been afraid that, following the scene with Pansy in the corridor, Hermione would decide not to keep their midnight appointment.  
  
Girls could be ridiculously touchy where other girls were concerned, after all, he reflected, conveniently choosing to forget the rush of jealousy he had felt when Hermione had appeared in the cellar of Honeydukes some twelve hours ago, wearing a man's sweatshirt.  
  
But the point was, she was here now, shrugging off the invisibility cloak, and looking extremely self-conscious standing there, just inside the library door, wearing a pair of soft knit pajamas, pale blue and decorated with little stars and moons. Draco saw that the short capped sleeves and modest v-neck of the pajama top were edged with delicate lace, and wondered whether, by virtue of that fact, she considered these the sexiest nightclothes she owned.  
  
And they _were_ sexy... simply because they were on her body.  
  
He grinned. "I'm glad to see you," he said, with complete honesty. "I was afraid you might not come."  
  
"I was afraid of the same thing," she said, approaching him. He noticed that she was still wearing her hair in that infernal braid. "I didn't know how you made out with Pansy. Is everything... okay?"  
  
"Everything's fine," Draco told her, clasping her by the shoulders when she reached him and kissing her on the forehead by way of greeting. "Pansy believes whatever I tell her." This, too, was the perfect truth. With Granger, honesty was the best policy whenever possible- because she could see through him in ways that Pansy could not.  
  
Hermione tried to rest her head on his shoulder then, but he didn't let her. Instead he grasped her chin gently with his thumb and forefinger and tilted her face up toward his. She blushed the moment their eyes met.  
  
"Are you ready?" he asked softly.  
  
"I'm ready," she whispered- then wetted her lips nervously with her tongue and added, in a cracked little voice, "I think."  
  
Still holding her chin, he lowered his lips to hers in a slow and tender kiss.  
  
"You think too much," he whispered a moment later, once he had pulled gently back. "For tonight, at least, don't think- just act. Okay?"  
  
"Okay," she repeated, and then he did let her drop her head forward against him, with a deep, shuddery sigh. "Okay... I trust you, Draco."  
  
He didn't know why it was that his heart sank when she spoke those words.  
  
By all rights he should feel elated; this was what he had been waiting for. Tonight was the culmination of the past several weeks' effort; tonight she would be his in every sense of the word- he would have her any and every way he wanted her, and in the morning, this bizarre power she seemed able to exert over his emotions would be broken, and he could go on with his life. _Right?_  
  
Right.  
  
Because whatever this so-called power of hers was, it tied directly into the fact that he wanted her with near frantic intensity; it was lust-based, nothing more. And it was time to put it to rest, once and for all.  
  
"Is there room under that cloak for two?" he murmured.  
  
00000  
  
They reached his room without incident, silently treading the deserted corridors of the school beneath the invisibility cloak, which Hermione had magically altered so that it would accommodate them both, edging their way carefully across the Slytherin common room, hardly daring to breathe, due to the fact that even at this late hour it was currently occupied by three people. Crabbe and Goyle, apparently feeling revived by their day's rest, were playing cards at a low table (Draco felt Hermione stiffen and press even closer against him; he wrapped one arm protectively about her waist without being consciously aware of doing so); the game was "War", and even a game as simple as this often gave the Neanderthal-like boys pause for thought as they carefully considered whether a given card was a six or a nine, and which was worth more; a king or a jack. At stake was an unfortunate younger student's bag of Honeyduke's sweets. The final person present in the room was Pansy, seated on the floor in front of the fireplace, talking animatedly once again to her Durmstrang friend- Draco silently and fervently thanked every deity he had ever heard of that the subject of Pansy's enthusiastic discourse was her day at the salon, rather than the evening's activities that had followed.  
  
And then they were through the common room, down a short corridor, and, once he had quietly performed several advanced unlocking charms, into Draco's room itself.  
  
He divested them both of the cloak, tossing it casually over the back of his desk chair, then gave his attention to re-locking the door, using an even longer and more complicated sequence of spells than he had used a moment ago to unlock it; he wanted to be damn sure that there would be no interruptions whatsoever tonight, or tomorrow morning, or for however long Hermione Granger was in this room. The moment all the locking charms were in place, with a powerful soundproofing spell thrown in for good measure, he put out the wall sconces with a flick of his wand and turned his attention to the fireplace, starting a magical blaze that bathed the room in a soft, flickering golden light. It would provide all the illumination and all the heat they would need for the night.  
  
When he finally turned his attention back to her, he realized with a jolt that she was shaking, and looked to be on the verge of tears.  
  
"Granger, what's wrong?" he asked, frowning, drawing her into his arms as he spoke.  
  
"I just hate them," she said, in a small, choked voice, her eyes downcast. "I hate them, I hate them, I hate them so much."  
  
He didn't have to ask who she was talking about.  
  
That bright, hot possessiveness, with which he was becoming quite familiar, flared. "They're never going to touch you again," he said vehemently- and he meant every word. Even once he was through with her, he did not intend to let Crabbe or Goyle anywhere near her. "You have my word on that, Hermione. I won't allow it."  
  
There was a pause, then- "are you saying you allowed it last time?" she asked, her voice suddenly brittle.  
  
"For God's sake, _no!_ I just didn't think to forbid it... but I have now, and they will listen to me. Look, I always knew they were capable of taking younger students' sweets, and smarter students' notes, but I had never thought them capable of taking..."  
  
"Me?"  
  
He looked down, meeting her eyes steadily. "You," he said emphatically, "are mine, and no one else's, for the taking, ever."  
  
It briefly occurred to Hermione that she ought to protest, and vehemently, such a blatant declaration of ownership... but why, really, when it made her feel so... safe?  
  
00000  
  
And then any opportunity for further pondering of that subject was cut short when Draco scooped her bodily into his arms and crossed the room in a few swift strides, depositing her on the bed, to sink helplessly into the lavish silken duvet- green and silver, of course- that lay cloudlike atop the surface of the mattress. Kneeling beside her, he instantly commanded, "roll over onto you stomach."  
  
"What? Why-?"  
  
"Just do it, Granger," he drawled.  
  
And there it was again. She ought to take offence at the tone of that command, and damn it, she knew she ought to take offence. And yet instead she found herself obeying him, her trust in him implicit, complete.  
  
She stretched out on her stomach, her arms criss-crossed and her head laid upon them, face turned to the side to keep an eye on Draco- but the next moment he moved out of her line of vision, swiftly and smoothly straddling her hips, so that he was half-kneeling, half-sitting atop the backs of her thighs. She raised her head with a jerk.  
  
"Draco! What are you-"  
  
"Shhh," he cut her off, leaning down so that his chest was pressed warm and solid against her back and whispering directly into her ear. "Don't move." And he sucked her earlobe into his mouth, causing her to give a great, shuddery gasp of surprised pleasure. "Sensitive there, are we?" he murmured smugly a moment later. Then, "I just want to undo your braid, Hermione. Stay still a moment, hm?" His fingers were already working deftly by the time he finished speaking.  
  
It took him several minutes to free her hair of its long, thick plait, and then for several more minutes he simply played with the newly liberated curls, plunging his hands into them, letting the soft, dark strands run over his fingers, reveling in the sensation the way a man who had been lost in the desert would revel in the cool, sweet waters of an oasis pool.  
  
Pushing her entire tumbled mass of hair off to one side at last, he leaned down again and placed a kiss on the nape of her neck. As he did this, his left hand darted to retrieve his wand from where it lay on the nightstand, and an instant later her pajamas, both top and bottom, had vanished from her body to reappear draped over the chair along with the invisibility cloak. Left in nothing but a pair of shell pink panties, Hermione gasped again and stiffened, attempting to push herself up, but Draco would have none of it. The sheer weight of his body held her easily in place.  
  
"Hey," he murmured, his lips moving against her neck as he replaced the wand, "you said you trusted me. Do you still?"  
  
That small, traitorous corner of his mind started to whisper that taking advantage of her trust this way was just plain-  
  
But he quelled it, viciously. No second thoughts, damnit, not now, not when he was this bloody close...  
  
And she relaxed once more, the word "yes" escaping her lips in a sort of breathy little moan.  
  
Draco leaned back and up into a kneeling position once more, still straddling her, but no longer holding her immobile with his weight. Slowly, starting at her shoulders, he ran his hands down the sides of her body, past the swell of her breasts, which were pressed into the bed below her, over the dips and curves of her waist and her hips, his fingers skimming over the fabric of her panties in an agony of longing- God, he wanted to rip them from her body, but he had to take it slow... slow... slow down.  
  
This was such sweet torture.  
  
He took several deep breaths in order to get a handle on himself, then eased off of her, until he was kneeling beside her, as he had been doing when first he'd placed her on the bed.  
  
He had to clear his throat before he could speak, and even then, when the words came, his voice was so husky that he barely recognized it. Pansy had never affected him like this. No girl had.  
  
"Roll over," he managed at length. "Roll over and let me see you."  
  
Hermione buried her face in the duvet for a moment, apparently gathering her courage, then, in an abrupt, decisive movement, she did as he asked, flipping over onto her back, her eyes flicking to his face, and then just as quickly away, fixing on a point just over his left shoulder as her hands wound tightly in the bedclothes on either side of her, no doubt, he thought, in a conscious effort to prevent them from flying to cover her modesty; shield from his view the things that no man had seen before.  
  
A deep, rosy blush spread across her features, and her chest, now exposed in all its glory, was rising and falling with rapid, hitching breaths. Draco realized distantly that what she was doing was enormously difficult for her; that she was actually suffering, in a way, under his scrutiny, that he should say something, do something, to soothe her... but for the moment, he was as if entranced; he couldn't tear his eyes away.  
  
"Holy... shit," he breathed reverently. "Granger... wow."  
  
Hermione had never been given to wearing tight-fitting clothes, or otherwise showing off her figure in any way whatsoever, and for this reason, Draco had never had an entirely clear idea of what she looked like beneath her school uniform and voluminous outer robes. Even on the rare occasions when he had seen her in causal clothes, such as earlier that day in Hogsmeade, she had been dressed for comfort rather than to impress him, in her ratty old jeans and a sweatshirt at least two sizes to big. But now...  
  
Now there were hardly words to describe her as she lay atop his luxurious silken bedclothes, in the flickering light of the fire, holding herself still for his inspection, though he could tell just by looking at her that her every instinct was screaming to cover herself and flee. Yes, her trepidation was plain to see, though, ever the Gryffindor, she was clearly trying her damnedest to keep up a brave front.  
  
She still couldn't quite bring herself to meet his eyes, though; that would have been too much for her. She was a hair's breadth away from being completely overwhelmed.  
  
He reflected, still staring at her, captivated, that he had considered her pretty (for a mudblood) for a long time already, and had admitted to his attraction, however grudgingly, ever since Valentine's night. But he now realized, wonderingly, that 'pretty' didn't even begin to describe this vision before him. Dear God, had he been _blind_?  
  
She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.  
  
Finally- "Draco?" she asked hesitantly.  
  
"Yeah," he said, his voice ragged. He swallowed hard, then; "you're... bloody hell, Hermione, you're incredible."  
  
He wouldn't have thought it possible for her to blush any more deeply, but she proved him wrong then. She turned positively crimson, and, her eyes seeking his again, but shyly, so shyly, whispered, "I'm cold."  
  
And she was, he saw then, trembling- but not with cold, he thought. No, he didn't think she was cold at all; just overwrought and desperate for an excuse to cover up. In a swift movement, he yanked his own shirt off over his head, then stretched out full-length beside her, pressing his warmth against hers, keeping himself levered slightly up on one elbow, leaning over her and stroking her cheek with the his other hand. He lowered his head and gave her a lingering kiss, then asked, "better now?"  
  
"A little," she admitted.  
  
He smiled and turned her in his arms- she was completely pliant; unresisting- so that she lay on her side, facing away from him; then he curled himself around her in a spooning position, his now bare chest pressed to her back, skin on skin. He positioned one arm under her head, cushioning it, and reached around her with the other one, first brushing his fingertips across the soft skin of her breasts, then gently palming each in turn.  
  
"Draco-_ohhh_!" She stiffened and her head snapped backward into his chest, slamming against his collarbone almost painfully.  
  
"Shhh," he whispered, and dropped a kiss on her temple as he continued to explore her body with his hands. "Don't think... just act. Right?"  
  
"Right..." the word came out as a whimper, because he had just slipped his wandering hand gently yet inexorably between her legs, cupping her there and rubbing soft, slow circles through the fabric of her pale pink panties.  
  
"Mmmhhh... Draco... I... don't..."  
  
"S'Okay," he murmured thickly, then quelled her in the most effective way he could think of; by lowering his lips once more to hers, stopping any further protests and slipping his tongue into her mouth just as he pushed aside the silken barrier of her panties.  
  
As his fingers stroked up and down between the softness of her panties and the softness of her flesh, she was literally writhing beneath him- he couldn't honestly tell whether in pleasure or in an attempt to escape, nor at this point did he truly care- and whimpering continually into his mouth, for he refused to release her from the deep, probing kiss he had initiated. But nothing could have prepared him for her reaction several long, exploratory moments later when, just as she began to relax against him once more, he plunged two fingers deeply into her.  
  
She twisted onto her back again and her body arched right off the bed, going as taut as a bow, and then she screamed- an unmistakable cry of distress that traveled directly from her mouth into his and was lost.  
  
At this, he finally broke the kiss, now at absolute war with himself as she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest, scratching his back with her nails as she hung onto him as if for dear life, clinging to the very source of her pain, seeming unable to form the words to ask him to stop, the only sound escaping her a small, breathless sort of negation- "ngh...ngh... ngh..." muffled against his skin.  
  
And God, he wanted her so badly. She was so tight- so bloody tight- Pansy had not felt anything like this, no girl he'd been with had- if she was like this just for his fingers, then he could only imagine... he wanted nothing more at that moment than to yank off his trousers and pound into her without pause, without thought, without mercy.  
  
And yet, he couldn't... he couldn't do that to her. Not when he knew he was hurting her so. He should, in fact, stop, right the hell now- he knew he should, and yet- and yet...  
  
In the end, he decided on a compromise. He would go forward, but as slowly and as gently humanly possible. After all, he rationalized, all girls were supposed to feel pain the first time, but Pansy had gotten over it quickly enough. The sooner they worked through this, the better. For both of them.  
  
Right?  
  
_Wrong_, whispered that stubborn bloody corner of his mind; _wrong, this is all wrong, she's not ready, this is plain wrong...  
_  
He gritted his teeth and deliberately ignored it.  
  
Shifting slightly, not removing his fingers from her body, he brought his other hand up against the back of her head, holding it hard to his chest, his fingers moving gently, soothingly, in her now damp hair- she had broken into a clammy sweat, he distantly realized, and was shaking against him harder than ever- and began murmuring to her again, soothing nonsense words, promising her it would be better soon, all better, just relax, everything was all right... at the same time, he began to move his fingers within her, out then in, out then in, and was answered, with each thrust, by a whimpered cry against his chest.  
  
_Wrong, this is so wrong...  
_  
But what finally managed to convince him to stop was when he scissored his fingers within her, stretching her around them, and she shrieked against him, whipping her head from side to side, and he felt, as she did so, a sudden and intense flood of hot tears unleashed against his chest- and quite suddenly he heard in his mind, as clearly as if she had spoken aloud, those four simple words she had uttered that night in the library when she had given herself over to him; "Draco... don't hurt me," she had said, and now- God, she was sobbing from pain; what in the hell was he _doing_?  
  
This couldn't go on.  
  
Slowly, carefully, he withdrew his fingers from her. The moment he had done so, all the tension seemed to go out of her body; she literally went limp in his arms, her own arms, which had been wrapped so tightly about him, falling away; she would have collapsed backwards had he not still been holding her head against his chest. He now moved his other arm beneath her as well, splaying his hand out across her back, high up between her shoulder blades, and gently eased her back down onto the duvet. Shifting himself off of her so that he lay beside her once more, he cupped her face and turned it toward him- and was shocked and dismayed by what he saw.  
  
Bloody hell, what had he done? How badly had he hurt her, anyway?  
  
A fever-bright flush lay along the tops of her cheeks, damp tendrils of her dark hair were stuck to her forehead with sweat, her lips were parted, and the lower one was smeared with blood, much as it had been on Valentine's night, but from a vastly different cause- she was biting it, he realized, with a stab of remorse (an emotion with which he had had, prior to now, very little experience- and one he decided he didn't like a bit); my God, she bit her lip bloody. It was her eyes that affected him most, though; they were half-closed, unfocused, and swimming with tears; her thick, dark lashes were clotted with them. It looked like she was in the midst of... of some sort of swoon... and dear God, did girls actually _do_ that? Wasn't that just melodramatic rubbish out of one of Pansy's romance novels?  
  
He took her face gently in both his hands and bent so close over her that their noses nearly touched, his own frustrated arousal now forgotten in the rising tide of concern he felt.  
  
"Granger," he said thickly.  
  
No response.  
  
"Hermione?"  
  
She blinked at that, and two tears streaked down the sides of her face as a result; then her eyes slowly widened and focused on his face.  
  
"Draco," she whispered, "I'm sorry. I thought I was ready, but I just... didn't... I'm so sorry!" A fresh spate of tears was unleashed from her eyes and she tried to turn her face away, but he wouldn't allow it.  
  
"Listen to me," he said quietly, yet urgently. "Hermione- are you listening? I don't want you to be sorry, you've nothing to apologize for, we're done for tonight and in the future, I'm going to let you set the pace, we'll go as fast or as slow as you like, there's no reason to rush; we have all the time in the world. Okay?"  
  
He kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose. "Hermione... _okay_?"  
  
"'kay," she breathed, her eyes drifting shut.  
  
Draco frowned; he didn't like her coloring at all. He pressed the back of his hand against one of her cheeks, then the other, and finally her forehead.  
  
She was too warm, he thought, going into healer mode; too damn warm by half. Reaching over her, he retrieved his wand, and passed it twice over her forehead, murmuring temperature reducing spells as he went. A potion, such as the one Snape had used on him when he'd been ill, would have been preferable, but he didn't have any in the room. Once he had done what he could, He stretched out on his side, wrapped both arms tightly about her and pulled her up against him. As she nestled into him, still trusting, even after what he had just put her through, he murmured, "have you been feeling sick today, love?" The endearment escaped him before he had realized he was going to speak it, and, disturbing as it was, he tucked it away to be examined at another time. Right now he wanted to figure out if she'd already been under the weather, or if he had done that to her single- handedly.  
  
"Tired," she whispered, her voice muffled, "little warm, too... but mostly just... tired... so tired from... exams."  
  
Of course. Bloody exams. He remembered, suddenly, the excuse she'd told him she had given to Potter and Weasley for not accompanying them down to Hogsmeade that morning; that she was going to spend the entire day locked in her room, sleeping off the exams. Of course... she was exhausted. She really _should_ have spent the day sleeping- he knew first hand how little rest she'd gotten during exam week, he'd been up with her studying every night until two, three, four o' clock. Well, mostly studying...  
  
But he'd never needed all that much sleep; just a few hours a night was sufficient for him, and it had never occurred to him that she might require a fair deal more in order to operate at full capacity... and then today, her first good opportunity for rest, he'd kept her up all day, and then he'd kept her up all night, and so of course she'd started to come down sick. If he'd been thinking straight, he wouldn't have been able to expect anything else.  
  
The first thing he felt was relief, that her suddenly feverish condition didn't have anything directly to do with his... attentions... that there was another, perfectly reasonable explanation for it. But this was followed swiftly by a powerful wave of guilt, and if he had disliked the stab of remorse he'd felt earlier, he hated this- yet, he couldn't deny it.  
  
Selfish, that's what he had been; bloody selfish all day. He realized this with a sort of wonder; he'd never scrutinized his own actions this closely before, and had certainly never previously allowed himself to be bothered by the fact that something that was good for him may have been less than beneficial to someone else. Until this moment, the only thing in his life that had been of more importance than his own personal wellbeing was his parents' wishes. After his own wellbeing, and his parents' wishes, came Pansy, because she tied directly in with his parents' wishes, followed by Snape, his mentor; then Crabbe and Goyle, because they had been his tag- alongs almost since he'd first started to walk and so he'd always felt responsible for them, and then the rest of Slytherin House.  
  
The fact that all of a sudden his feelings for this girl; this Gryffindor of tainted blood, best friend of his arch-nemesis, threatened to eclipse all that and move straight to the head of the line, so to speak, was terrifying. He _shouldn't_ feel guilty about tonight, damn it all to hell. He shouldn't. He shouldn't. He shouldn't. He shouldn't. If anything, he thought indignantly, he had every right to feel sorry for himself- after all, he'd stopped short of taking what he'd wanted, hadn't he? And a damn good thing he'd gone and had himself a little Pansy hors'dourve earlier in the evening- if he hadn't taken the edge off that way, he didn't think he'd have been _able_ to stop... Granger just ought to be grateful his self- control had been up to snuff, because just about any other guy in his situation would most likely have gone ahead and...  
  
And what?  
  
Raped her? Because that's what it would have amounted to. Was he trying to find a justification for rape? He was quite suddenly horrified with the direction his train of thought was taking. He didn't condone men hitting women, and he most certainly didn't condone rape... The thought that Crabbe and Goyle had attempted to do that very thing to her on Valentine's night could still make him actually shake with anger when he allowed himself to dwell on it...  
  
And yet... she had so nearly pushed him over the edge.  
  
Nearly. But not quite. And maybe, he thought, in mounting desperation, maybe it would have been better for him in the long run if he _had_ just gone ahead and taken his pleasure of her... at least then they both would have known where they stood with each other. Whereas this... this state he found himself in now was agony, because the fact that he had stopped- thereby denying himself something he'd wanted desperately- which was simply not something he did- ever- meant that Granger... Hermione... was more to him than a mere physical conquest, no matter how hard he'd been trying to convince himself otherwise over the past several weeks.  
  
If all she had been was a physical conquest, he wouldn't have stopped. He'd have gone ahead, and found a way to justify it to himself, because after all, she had come willingly to his room, and once there, she had never said 'no', she had never said 'stop'... he would have fucked her, he would have justified it, and he would have gone on with his life.  
  
And yet when it had come right down to it, he hadn't been able to do it. He hadn't been able to stand hurting her.  
  
He looked down at her once again; she had drifted off into a deep and much- needed sleep. Realizing that he'd been holding his wand all this time, he finally set it back down on the nightstand, then smoothed her hair back from her face, and frowned as he noticed, once again, her slightly bloodied lower lip. He licked his thumb and used it to wipe away the blood. She didn't wake.  
  
And that was when it struck him.  
  
"God help me," he whispered aloud, his arms tightening about her slumbering form as the full force of realization finally hit him; "I need her. And not just her body, and not just one time... I could have had that tonight, if that were all I wanted. No, I need _her_- all of her- on a permanent basis. Aw, bloody hell, I am- so- fucked." 


	8. Chapter 8: Ideal Solution?

He didn't get much sleep that night.

He lay awake well into the early morning hours, in fact, holding Hermione in a way he had never held Pansy after sex- (he tolerated _her_ in his bed because it was the only chivalrous thing to do, that was all)- his mind chasing itself around in circles, trying to figure out how he could possibly satisfy the demands of familial duty- i.e., marry Pansy straight out of school- and his own desire for the future, i.e., to somehow... well, to somehow "keep" Granger.

No brilliant solution was forthcoming.

"Goddamn it," he finally muttered aloud in frustration; the shimmering green numbers hanging above his wand put the time at 4:36. Never before in his life had he been unable to come up with a satisfactory solution to any problem involving himself. He had always managed to figure out a way to get exactly what he wanted, exactly when he wanted it, exactly how he wanted it. This was maddening. "What the _fuck_ am I gonna do?"

"Draco?"

Hermione stirred against his chest, then murmured something which, though both muffled and sleep-slurred, might have been, "s'everything okay?"

"Yeah," he said into her hair, "everything's just fine. Go back to sleep, Granger. You need it."

But when she nestled still closer to him, that certain part of him- the _most_ selfish part- stirred into life, and in the next moment, he found himself easing her onto her back and kissing her deeply once more.

When he finally pulled back for breath, she was staring up at him with dark, drowsy eyes- _those eyes,_ whispered his traitorous mind, _you could wake up to those eyes every morning of your life and never tire of them_- and he saw the awakening of desire battling uncertainty behind them. The kissing felt good. But she was afraid of that other act, the act of penetration, the one that brought pain.

"Draco-"

He cut her off. "You're not ready, I know." Gently, he brushed her sleep-tousled hair back from her brow. "It's all right, Hermione. There are other things we can do, if you like." His mouth quirked into the merest hint of a wicked grin, and he lowered his head again so that when next he spoke, his lips were moving against hers.

"Things involving... tongues."

Her lips quirked up in a slow, sleepy smile, indicating that for this, she was definitely game.

What followed wiped all thoughts of his predicament from his mind... at least for a little while.

00000

They both slept far into the morning, Draco having had no more difficulties drifting off after... well, after. He awoke first, however, to an insistent tapping on the room's single window; Jupiter, whom he had sent off several days ago with his usual fortnightly letter home, had returned.

He disentangled himself from Hermione, swung his legs over the side of the bed, yawned, ran a hand through his hair, and just sat there for a moment, waiting for the fogginess of deep sleep to clear a little from his mind. Finally, when the tapping began to be interspersed with an occasional thud, as if Jupiter were actually attempting to ram his way in, as a man might shoulder open a locked door (that owl was just a little bit loco, when you got right down to it), he stood, crossed to the window, and let a very irritated Jupiter into the room.

The magnificent owl soared once around the room, then alighted on top of his gilt cage, clacking his beak at Draco in a temper, and shooting Hermione several very dirty looks indeed.

Draco approached him, holding out a hand imperiously for the letter Jupiter carried, not put off in the least by his animal's behavior. "Don't even think about it, Jupiter," he told the owl, in a tone that brooked no argument, as he untied the small roll of parchment from the leg that Jupiter proffered him. "You have always served me well, but make no mistake, if you ever turn beak or talon on her, it will be the last thing you do. Understand?"

The owl met his gaze steadily, and in that amber stare, Draco could see that Jupiter understood perfectly- though he didn't approve of this new dalliance of his master's... not one bit.

Once Draco had retrieved the letter successfully, he opened the cage for Jupiter, then crossed to his desk, sat, unfurled the parchment, and read, a frown deepening over his features as he did so. The letter was from his father, of course, but it was not the standard "things are fine here, hope you're studying hard, your mother is preparing a care package for you which will be sent along shortly and oh, by the way, I heard you lost the snitch to Potter again, you're a disgrace to the Malfoy name." No, this was something else.

_Dear Draco,_ the letter began, and that was enough to throw him right there; his father's letters were usually quite businesslike- he did not often open them with endearments.

_Dear Draco,_

_By the time this letter reaches you, your N.E.W.T. exams should be over. I trust that you will have done well enough to be a credit to the Malfoy name. Now that exams are past and your departure from Hogwarts is imminent, it is time to look to the future. To this end, I believe you have a major jewelry purchase to make, son. This letter is to inform you that I have opened a line of credit at the most reputable jewelry shoppe in Hogsmeade village, and expect you to go, at your earliest convenience, to purchase an engagement ring for Miss Parkinson. Cost, as I am sure you realize, is no object. You are to select a ring that, obviously, Miss Parkinson will be proud to wear, and that you will be proud to see her wear; a ring that will inspire, in all who look upon it, a true appreciation of the Malfoy wealth and prestige. I will leave it at your discretion to select an appropriate occasion on which to present her with this token of your intentions, so long as it is before the two of you leave Hogwarts permanently. Personally, I would suggest graduation day. Speaking of which, I regret to inform you that your mother and I will be unable to attend your commencement ceremony. Urgent business calls us away. Do rest assured, however, that we are both very proud of your accomplishments (with the single glaring exception of your continuing abysmal failure to play Quidditch with any sort of proficiency whatsoever), and will look forward greatly to seeing you, and your lovely fiancée, this summer._

_Your mother has set the wedding date for December 18th._

_Fondly,_

_Lucius Malfoy_

Draco read the letter twice through, then crumpled it in his fist and threw it into the fire, which was still burning steadily. Then he leaned both elbows on the desk and dropped his head forward into his hands, brooding.

_A ring that will inspire, in all who look upon it, a true appreciation of the Malfoy wealth and prestige._

He snorted. In other words, the biggest honking diamond in the damn store; preferably one that people would notice on his future fiancée's hand from a block or more away.

And then...

_I regret to inform you that your mother and I will be unable to attend your commencement ceremony. Urgent business calls us away._

Bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit, that. _Urgent business, right, _he thought bitterly. _My arse_.

The truth of the matter was that his father hated Dumbledore, pure and simple; couldn't stand the fact that all of his attempts over the years to lose the headmaster his position had failed. Wouldn't be able to take sitting there and watching Dumbledore preside over the ceremony; would see it as a personal loss of face. But he'd never come out and say that, not in writing, not in a letter that, however unlikely the odds were, could potentially be intercepted, fall into the wrong hands, be seen by the wrong eyes. Not crafty old Lucius, oh no.

He sighed unhappily.

"Draco? What's wrong?"

He whipped his head back up and saw Hermione, now wide awake and sitting cross-legged in the very center of the large bed, the bedclothes pooled about her waist, her hair tumbling forward over her shoulders, the masses of dark curls all that were shielding her breasts from his view.

Seeing her like that brought a small smile to his lips despite everything; she just looked so- well, so _right _sitting there. It was difficult to explain, but whenever he awoke in the morning to find Pansy in his bed, he was always faced with the sudden, jarring sense that something was wrong with the picture, something was out of place; that Pansy, somehow, simply didn't "fit". The feeling he got now, though, looking at Hermione, was the exact opposite; a sense of something, on a very deep level, clicking into place. A sense that this was absolutely right; that Hermione- a Gryffindor adrift in a sea of green and silver silks- actually belonged here, in a way that his perfectly pedigreed Slytherin betrothed never had.

_Must. Stop. Thinking. This. Way._

What had begun as a true smile had become frozen on his face and now felt more like a grimace than anything else. Wiping his expression clean, he said casually, "nothing important. Don't worry about it, Granger."

"You had a letter," Hermione said, not to be put off. Her brow furrowed. "You threw it in the fire."

Draco's eyes followed hers to the fireplace, where he watched what was left of the blackened, curled parchment dissolve into ash. He sighed again. Damn Granger missed nothing, and unlike Pansy, didn't know when to leave well enough alone.

Raking a hand through his hair, he stood and crossed to the bed, settling himself beside her. "You're right," he said, "it was an unwelcome letter because it means I have some business to attend to in town today, instead of spending the day with you. I'm sorry."

"Oh," she said, and then a moment later, "this business, it's nothing to do with- I mean-"

She broke off, but the words she didn't say hung heavy in the air between them; _Death Eaters. It's nothing to do with the Death Eaters_..._ is it?_ That's what she'd been asking.

"For God's sake, Hermione, no!" he said- snapped, really. "How could you think that I would spend the night with you and then go-"

_Go plot with people who would kill you as soon as look at you,_ he thought. _Or actually, no; who would torture you and maim you and use you as bait to lure Potter into a trap- THEN kill you._

This thought was like a bucket of ice water poured over him. Oh, he didn't like this thought. He didn't like this thought at all. In fact, he was left feeling faintly queasy- but the very worst thing about the thought, he decided, was the fact that it affected him so strongly. It just proved how deeply he was infatuated with the mud- the- Hermione.

Goddamn it.

This was so not good.

So naturally, to take his mind off things, he kissed her.

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"Shower with me," he murmured, forty or so minutes later, as they lay together in a decadent tangle of bedclothes and limbs, their bodies lightly filmed with perspiration, sated from more of the "things involving... tongues" that he had first introduced her to much earlier that morning.

She had been reluctant at first, put off by the direction in which their conversation had been headed previous to the kiss, but had capitulated soon enough, following a bit more reassurance on his part that no, his business had nothing to do with "the bloody Death Eaters!" And a good thing for him, too, that this had been the truth, because the searching look she had given him had pierced him to the core, and he knew that she would have caught him out if he'd been lying.

Damn... clever... intuitive... amazing... Granger.

What the fuck was he gonna do about this?

He was back to brooding over the Pansy / Hermione situation, but decided to put it out of his mind long enough to enjoy a shower with the stunning girl who was currently draped naked over him- bathing with her would be another intimacy, such as holding her through the night, that he had never deigned to share with Pansy.

He would have plenty more time to brood later on, while down in the village selecting an engagement ring for a woman he neither loved, nor even wanted any longer... she had been a good enough substitute for Hermione until last night, but now that he'd seen, touched, held, tasted the real thing... Pansy paled by comparison.

That didn't change his resolve, however, to do right by his family... whether they came to his bloody graduation or not. His parents were counting on him. He was expected to buy a great, gaudy ring for Pansy on his father's credit; all right, he would do it. He was expected to present her with it and ask her to be his wife (as if there could be any doubt as to what her answer would be), preferably on graduation day; he would do that too. And he would marry her on December eighteenth. There was no choice. There never had been.

But there had to be a way to keep Granger too. _That_ was what he needed to figure out.

He had always found the means to get his way before; he would do it again now. He just needed to figure out how. But in the mean time...

He rose from the bed and before Hermione had a chance to do anything but sit up, he scooped her into his arms and carried her bodily into the adjoining bathroom. The shower that followed took at least three times longer than was strictly necessary.

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It was some two hours later, while down in Hogsmeade, that Draco hit upon the solution he'd been looking for. He had been pacing the streets of the village, thinking hard, unable to bring himself to enter the jewelry shoppe as of yet, though he had walked past it five times at least. At the moment, he was standing in front of the little village library, where he and Hermione had passed a pleasant half-hour just the day before, staring at it with blank, unseeing eyes when someone brushed past him, jarring him abruptly out of the nearly trance-like state he had been in.

Turning to see who had bumped him, his eyes lit on a brisk, business-like witch with short-cropped steel gray hair and deep purple robes, who had stopped several feet away from him and was busily setting up a small sign on the sidewalk. The sign read OPEN HOUSE in magically flashing letters the exact hue of the witch's robes, and beneath the words was a red arrow pointing toward the small house- a cottage, really, Draco saw- that sat prettily beside the library, the two properties separated only by a long row of well-maintained rosebushes positively dripping with colorful, fragrant blooms.

Once the sign was in place, the witch straightened and started up the flagstone walk toward the cottage door. Draco, meanwhile, was looking from the library to the cottage to the sign- from the library to the cottage to the sign- an idea forming in his mind.

"Hey!" he shouted, just as the witch had reached the front door. She stopped and turned to watch him as he rapidly approached.

Stopping short just below her on the cottage's front steps, Draco asked abruptly, "is this house for sale?"

"Well, I should think so," the witch replied, cheerfully enough. "I'm Rosetta, the realty witch." She extended a hand toward him. "And you are-?"

"Malfoy, Draco Malfoy." He didn't take her hand; he was looking past her, still surveying the cottage. "I want to buy this house."

The witch eyed him for a moment, one brow cocked. "Are you a student up at the school?" she finally asked.

"Only for about another week," Draco replied impatiently, "and I don't see how that has any bearing. I'm seventeen years old; I'm an adult, and I want to buy this house."

"All right, Mister Malfoy," the witch said cautiously, "but let's not be rash. You don't even know how much this house costs, you haven't seen inside-"

"Formalities," Draco cut her off. "Whatever the sellers are asking, I will pay. If the inside is not to my liking, I will change it. The location alone is enough to recommend it to me. I am telling you, I _know_ I want to buy this house. Now, do you want to make a sale, or not?"

This seemed to decide her. "I always want to make a sale, Mister Malfoy," she said crisply. "If you'll accompany me to my office, we can draw up the papers." Without further ado, she headed back down the front walk, stopping for just a moment at the sidewalk to scoop up her sign and tuck it under one arm. "How long of an escrow will you need?"

"A day; perhaps two. As long as it takes me to owl Gringott's and make arrangements to have the cost of the house transferred from my vault into the current owners'. There will be no need to finance the purchase; I intend to pay cash in full."

"Mister Malfoy, may I remind you that you still do not know what the cost of the house _is_?"

Draco, who had been walking in step with her back toward the center of the village's small business district, where her office apparently was located, stopped abruptly, forcing her to stop as well, and look at him.

Meeting her gaze steadily, he repeated flatly, "there will be no need to finance the purchase; I intend to pay cash in full."

Slowly, Rosetta the realty witch smiled. "I think I like you, Mister Malfoy."

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When he left the real estate office an hour later, it was with a bounce in his step and a very satisfactory feeling that he had managed to do it again; figure out a way to get- or, in this case, keep- what he wanted so badly. Thank God for his own private Gringott's vault, which held a sizable fortune to which his parents had no access, it having been left to him by his grandparents on his mother's side, who had never quite approved of their daughter's husband. Which was rather ironic, considering how hard they had lobbied for the match; they had wanted their only daughter married to Lucius Malfoy because of his wealth and the fact that the Malfoy name was practically royalty among Slytherins... but being Slytherins themselves, they had never quite trusted the man- and so had willed their fortune (it did not even begin to rival the Malfoy wealth, but was respectable enough in its own right) to their sole grandchild, instead of to their daughter, who would have been compelled by wizarding law to share the money with her husband.

It was this financial independence that allowed Draco to make the occasional impulsive purchase such as, oh, say, a house, at the drop of a hat. His mind was filled with plans for his newly acquired property- he had already asked Rosetta to get a rented team of house elves in the very next day, just as soon as it was confirmed that payment had been transferred from his own vault to that of the house's now previous owners. He had booked the elves for five days, to thoroughly clean and air out the cottage, which, it transpired, had been sitting empty for the past six months (its previous owners having gone away on holiday to Australia and then having decided that they liked it so much they weren't going to come back.) Graduation was in six days; all would need to be in readiness by then. He made a mental note to owl Rosetta that very evening and see whether she could recommend any professional warders; he would want the best in the business to set up protective wards around the cottage within the next week; he was still rattled by the thought he'd had that morning about Granger's fate should the Death Eaters get their hands on her. And she was bound to be a target, as close as she was to that bastard Potter. He wished he was privy to more of the Death Eaters' plans, but aside from some unimportant tidbits they threw his way every now and then to share with the other members of LYDE, he was largely in the dark.

That would change after graduation, though. His father had made no mention yet of any concrete plans, but he was fairly sure that he was slated for initiation into the Death Eaters proper at right around the same time as his wedding. Once he was truly in the fold, he would have access to more detailed information about Voldemort's plans concerning mudbloods in general... and then he would know what specific steps to take to ensure the safety of the only Muggleborn that mattered to him. In the mean time, standard security wards, expertly applied, would have to suffice.

His line of thinking was cut off, however, as his feet brought him once again to the door of the Hogsmeade jewelry shoppe, which he had passed by so many times already that day with a heavy heart. Now, however, he did not hesitate to enter, a small bell jingling overhead as he opened the door. He no longer dreaded this place, because now he had a plan. He would make not one purchase here today, but two; the first on his father's credit, the second- and by far the more meaningful of the two- to be paid for by himself alone.

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"Ah! Young Mister Malfoy, I presume," the jeweler greeted him good naturedly. The man was short, round, balding, and, Draco thought, decidedly gay. "Your father told me to be expecting you, and there's no mistaking the family resemblance, is there? Good lord, such hair. So what can I help you with?"

"Two things," Draco said. "First, I need to purchase the largest diamond ring in the store. It will go on the line of credit my father opened here recently. Second-"

"Just a moment, a moment," the little man cut him off. "We have quite a nice selection of diamond engagement rings. Wouldn't you care to see them, and then decide?"

"Is there one that is larger than all the others?" Draco asked, in a voice of severely tried patience.

"Well, yes-"

"Then that is the one that I want. There is no need for me to inspect it, much less any of the others. Just wrap it up." He paused for a moment, frowning, then added, "as long as the diamond is superior in quality as well as in size. I wouldn't want anything... er... dull."

The jeweler drew himself up to his full, if not very impressive, height. "I assure you, sir, that we do not sell dull diamonds here."

"Very well," Draco said, "then kindly box and wrap the largest ring you have. With a great, gaudy bow, if you please. In pink. And then, can we discuss the second item I have in mind?"

Draco watched disinterestedly as the diminutive jeweler selected a ring from the case, slipped it into a black velvet box, and placed this within a larger, pale blue box, which he tapped once, lightly, with his wand. Immediately, a length of shimmery pink organza ribbon spouted from the wandtip and wrapped itself expertly around the box, tying itself off in a large and perfect bow.

This done, he conjured up a pink and silver striped gift bag and placed the box within it, along with a vast quantity of silver tissue paper. He then handed the whole shebang, with a flourish, to Draco- who set it aside without so much as another glance.

"Now, about this second purchase you have in mind," the jeweler said- if he was at all deflated by Draco's lack of appreciation for his handiwork, he did not show it; he was still as friendly as he had been when Draco had first set foot in the store- "what else may I show you, sir?"

"Nothing," Draco said. "I'm not interested in buying anything you have on display. I want a second ring _made_- do you do that?"

"But of course."

"There are certain wards and protective spells I'd like to have worked right into the gold as the ring is crafted. Can you do _that_?"

"Absolutely... though you will need to provide something that bears the essence of the one who is to be protected; a lock of hair would do nicely- and of course, there are fees associated with that sort of thing, over and above the cost of the jewelry itself."

"Money is no object," Draco said, "and by the way, this second ring will _not_ go on my father's credit. It is a... graduation gift for a friend of mine, and I intend to pay for it myself."

There was a moment of silence in which the jeweler regarded Draco shrewdly. His eyes flicked from the blond youth over to the fancy gift bag in which Draco had shown so little interest, and back again. Then, to Draco's dismay, a knowing look appeared in the man's eyes, and he dropped Draco a confidential wink.

"Not to worry, sir," he said kindly, "I understand completely, and I can assure you of the utmost discretion in the handling of your... special purchase."

_He thinks I'm GAY_, Draco realized, horrified. _He thinks I'm being forced into an arranged marriage- which is true- but he also thinks the second ring is for a- my boyfriend, or something!_

It was on the tip of his tongue to disabuse the man of this notion- violently- but at the very last second, his Slytherin nature won out and he changed his mind. Let the man think he was gay, he decided. It was a good cover for his real intent. Better to let this man think he'd discovered a kindred spirit, for whose sake he _would_ be more likely to be discrete, then to have word of his second purchase get back to his father somehow. That would raise all sorts of uncomfortable questions, and though he was confident that he could lie his way out of them if he had to, he certainly preferred not to find himself in that situation if it could be avoided.

So his only response was to put on a nervous-looking little smile and say, "thanks for that, mate. As you can imagine, it's this second ring that is... closer to my heart- (_well, that much, at least, _he thought, _is true_.) I warn you, I'm going to be very particular about it."

"Oh, I quite understand," the jeweler said enthusiastically. "Come into my office in back, and we can go over exactly what you want."

As Draco followed him through a door behind the long glass-fronted jewelry case, he was thinking, _This is one deception that I'm only willing to carry just so far. If this old bastard makes a bloody pass at me, so help me God, I _will_ kill him._

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The remaining days leading up to graduation flew by for Draco, busy as he was with preparations for the commencement ceremony, as well as the preparation of Hermione's double graduation present. The nights were spent with Hermione in his bedroom, loving each other to the point of exhaustion, touching, tasting... but still, he did not claim her virginity. He had made a vow to her and to himself that he would not take that prize until she declared herself unequivocally ready... and so far she had not. The irony was not lost on Draco that night after night he made excuses to Pansy before meeting Hermione in the library- blowing off a girl who would have been more than happy to "go all the way" with him for one who was not yet willing to take that step. Any one of his Quidditch teammates, for instance, had they known, would doubtless have laughed him to scorn- and that included Bulstrode, he thought with a shudder. But there was no way around it; he preferred Hermione's company. Had she still been slapping his hands away every time they attempted to stray below the waistband of her prim, pleated uniform skirt, as she had for so many weeks previous, he likely _still_ would have preferred her company. This thought was frightening... but he no longer made any attempt to deny it to himself. In fact, he was actually coming to terms with it. He _could_ come to terms with it, now that he had set in motion a plan which would allow her to remain an integral part of his post-Hogwarts life.

On the night following his visit to the Hogsmeade jeweler, he gently clipped a lock of her hair while she slept and sent it with Jupiter early the following morning, before she had even awakened. He received a reply that afternoon that work on the specially commissioned ring was well underway and he could expect to take delivery of it, as requested, the day before graduation.

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A/N: For those readers who are following my other "Work In Progress", Sometimes When We Touch, no, it is certainly not over, and I apologize for the hitherto unheard of delay in getting the latest chapter out. As a result of a power outage- which came out of the clear blue sky for absolutely no reason I can fathom- the chapter was lost, and I am having one bloody hell of a time rewriting it; it's ten times harder the second time around, since I'm trying to hard to remember the exact wording that flowed so easily and smoothly the first time!


	9. Chapter 9: A Proposal Denied

"Draco, what is the meaning of this?" Hermione asked laughingly, as he pulled her bodily into the empty classroom and shut the door behind them.

The commencement ceremony had ended some two hours ago, and the parents who'd attended had left, following a reception which had just ended. Many of the new graduates had left with their families, but Hermione had not. She had kissed her parents goodbye and promised them she'd see them tomorrow; she couldn't resist the prospect of spending one last night in her Head Girl room- or perhaps, she had thought with a private little grin, Draco's Head Boy room- in the school she had come to love like a second home. She wanted her last night here, and she wanted to ride the Hogwarts Express home, one last time, with her friends.

So at the conclusion of the reception, when her parents had been ushered away along with all the other Muggle relatives for group transport back to London, she had headed off toward the library, hoping that perhaps Draco would be there, waiting for her. They had shared several brief, yet meaningful glances during the ceremony; aside from Harry and Ron, it had been Draco to whom her eyes had been drawn most often as she stood at the podium, giving the traditional Head Girl commencement speech- and when it had been Draco's turn to address the assembled students, faculty and family members as Head Boy, she had noticed that he had sought her gaze several times as well- but they hadn't had a chance to actually speak all day, and she was dying to talk to him... well, and snog him senseless... but no, really, first and foremost they needed to talk; she wouldn't be seeing him every day after they left Hogwarts, and the more she thought about that fact, the more painful it became to bear. There was no denying it to herself anymore-

She was in love with Draco Malfoy.

And she needed to know whether he felt the same way. She needed to know whether, now that they would no longer have such constant easy access to each other, he'd be willing to go out of his way to keep their relationship alive. Maybe even... to renounce the Death Eaters and take things to the next level...?

Dare she hope?

It was as she'd been walking briskly toward the library, all her thoughts turned inward, pondering these uncertainties, that he'd reached out from behind a statue and grabbed her, catching her completely off-guard, slapping a hand over her mouth to stifle her startled cry, and yanking her into the nearest classroom.

Now, releasing her, he dropped her a quick, cheeky wink and then turned his attention to locking the door; first bolting it, then sealing it magically as well, just to make extra-sure there would be no untimely interruptions.

"My friends are going to be missing me, Malfoy," Hermione exclaimed, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping one foot in mock anger- but she couldn't suppress the smile that was curving her lips upward in spite of herself. No one would be looking for her for at least an hour; she had made her excuses before she'd left the party, since she'd planned all the while to go looking for Draco.

But the fact that he had been looking for her too- not just waiting in the library, but actively _looking_ for her, as evidenced by his hallway ambush- went a long way toward answering her not-yet-voiced questions about whether he was as interested in continuing their relationship as she was.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but before she could get a single word out, Draco bent and captured her lips with his, pulling her into a deep, passionate kiss. When he pulled back a long moment later, it looked as though he was also fighting a losing battle against the impulse to grin like an idiot. "So are mine," he said simply. "Fuck 'em. They can wait a little while. This is important."

Hermione's expression took on a bemused quality. Though Draco was still smiling, his eyes held an intensity she had never seen in them before. "Draco," she repeated, more quietly this time, and feeling suddenly, inexplicably, a bit breathless, "what's going on?"

"I've got to give you your graduation present," Draco replied, reaching into a deep fold of the dress robes he was wearing- they both were wearing their finest clothes, neither having changed since commencement.

"Oh, no!" she cried, suddenly dismayed. "Draco, I didn't-"

"Get me anything? Don't worry about it. Just say yes. That's the best gift you could give me."

Hermione went abruptly very, very still, her eyes widening as she grasped the fact that Draco was apparently about to ask her a very serious question. She felt her heart skip a beat. She had been seeking him in the hopes of discussing a potential future together- it appeared that he had been seeking her with the same thing in mind.

_Oh my gosh_, she thought crazily, _am I ready for this? Because it sure sounds as if_...

Merlin, was he about to-?

She hardly knew whether to be relieved or disappointed when he withdrew his hand- and she saw that he was holding a large yellow envelope, sealed with red wax.

Not a jewelry box. Not, more specifically, a ring box.

She knew it was perfectly acceptable for couples in the wizarding world to wed at seventeen, eighteen, nineteen years of age. She just didn't know if she herself was ready for such a commitment at this point. Or at least, that's what her rational mind told her...

But beneath her veneer of cool logic, she couldn't deny the fact that, had it been a ring box, had he been about to ask her _the _question, she would have said yes. She may have stipulated a long engagement... but she would have said yes.

She loved him, after all, so help her God.

It would have been conditional, of course, upon his willingness to shift his loyalty away from the Dark Lord, to the side of the Light... but such a willingness would have had to be inherent in his asking her that question in the first place- he couldn't possibly plan to be a Death Eater with a Muggleborn wife; the danger to both of them in such a scenario would be extreme.

But it was all moot, of course, since it didn't appear that he going to propose to her anyway... so then, what on earth-?

Her train of thought was cut off as Draco thrust the envelope toward her with an uncharacteristic brusque nervousness and said simply, "open it."

She gave him one last quizzical look before turning her attention to the envelope, breaking the wax seal, reaching in her hand, and pulling out...

"Photos?"

"Photos of your graduation gift, Granger," he drawled, seeming to recover his composure. "Do try to keep up."

"But I don't understand," she said- whispered, really- her brow knitted as she shuffled through the half-dozen or so photographs in her hands. "These are all pictures of..." she trailed off then, raising wide and suddenly shocked eyes to meet Draco's. "But you can't have... you..." Staring up at him, she read the truth in his face.

"Oh... oh, my," she said weakly. "Draco, you... bought me a _house?_"

Draco leaned forward, placing the palms of each hand flat on the wall behind her, one on either side of her body, effectively pinning her in place with no physical contact whatsoever, though their faces were now so close together that their breath intermingled and their noses nearly touched.

"Correction. I bought-" he paused and dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose- "_us_ a house."

She dropped her eyes to the topmost photo, which had apparently been taken from across the road, because it showed not only the cottage, but also the fact that it was located right next to the Hogsmeade library- stared at it for a long moment, then raised wondering eyes back to Draco, opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, and finally managed, "you're asking me to move in with you?"

A slight frown settled over Draco's features. "In a manner of speaking," he replied, a bit evasively. "The house is yours. It's already in your name. It even comes complete with a house elf-" he paused momentarily, allowing himself a small smirk at the thunderclouds that were clearly gathering in her expression, before he continued, "a house elf that wears clothes, has moved into the smallest bedroom, expects a salary of three galleons per week, with an additional one galleon per week going into a retirement fund- and insists on taking every Sunday off. Believe me, she wasn't easy to find, and you can be sure that no one else will have her, so think on that before you send her packing. I believe the two of you will suit each other perfectly. As for me..." he sighed and ran a hand through his near-colorless hair. "It will _not_ be my primary residence, though I intend to spend as much time there, with you, as I possibly can." He closed his eyes for a moment, a pained expression flitting across his face. "You must believe me when I say that I wish our circumstances were different. But they are what they are and the fact is, you and I both still have our priorities in life, which come with certain... obligations-"

"You're still going to be a Death Eater," she whispered, feeling suddenly as though she'd been slapped.

Draco sighed. "I remain true to my cause, Granger, just as I accept that you remain true to yours-"

"Yes, but-"

"But yours is right, I know," he said, sounding suddenly weary. "We've been through this all-"

"There's more to it than that!" she practically shouted. She couldn't believe the turn this conversation had taken. One moment she'd been contemplating a life with the man she (unwisely, oh God, so unwisely) loved in this picture-perfect little home, and the next he was telling her that- that-

"Don't you understand, you have no bloody choice but to accept that I remain true to my cause! I couldn't defect to your cause if I wanted to, because they'd never _accept_ me! They think I was _born_ inferior! They wouldn't have me! They would _kill_ me if I approached them! But you... you could cross over, there's nothing stopping _you_ except for your own sheer bloody-mindedness! So of course you accept that I remain true to my cause, but I will not, I _cannot_ accept that you will remain true to yours, going to your Death Eater meetings, plotting the mass murder of people _just like me_, and all the while keeping me tucked away for your leisure time like some... some... little mudblood _pet_-"

"That is _not fair!_" Draco shouted. "This is not the way I wanted things to be! You seem to think I have a choice, but I have none- I _must_ be true to my family, I'm the only child, there is no one else! You're an only child too, Granger, you must understand something of the burden that I carry, the expectations my parents placed on me at birth that I _have _to live up to! I can't let down my family; I'm all they have. If I lay down my burden, there is nobody else to pick it up. I had hoped that you would understand _that_ at least." He shook his head. "But no, of course not, you're so fucking righteous, how could you ever step outside yourself for even one bloody moment and see..."

"Malfoy-"

"Do you think I WANT to marry Pansy?!?" he suddenly exploded, pounding a fist unexpectedly into the wall mere inches from her head. "Damn it, Granger, I _never_ wanted to, but I had come to terms with it, I had learned to accept it... until _you!_ Now that... that I've seen what the alternative is, walking down that aisle is going to feel like being led to the Dementors for a Kiss... and it's all your goddamn _fault_-"

Hermione's voice, though now barely audible- she was suddenly having trouble even breathing, let alone speaking- nonetheless cut through Draco's tirade like the crack of a whip. "You're marrying Pansy?"

Draco fell silent for a moment, breathing hard, looking down at Hermione, who was paler than parchment, and looked as if the classroom wall was all that was holding her upright at the moment. He took a deep breath, squeezed his pale, tormented eyes closed, opened them again, and said, "of course I'm marrying Pansy. I've always been going to marry Pansy. It's been arranged for years. I just wanted to build something with you to sustain me through my life with her... a light at the end of my tunnel, knowing- just knowing you were- bloody hell, Hermione, why do you make me spell everything out?!? It's so fucking _obvious!_ I don't love her, I-"

_WHAP._

For the third time in her life, Hermione Granger slapped Draco Malfoy, hard across the face. He took two steps back, but did not otherwise react.

"Don't," she spat out, literally shaking with rage. "Don't... you... say it, don't you _dare_ speak to me of love in the same... fucking... breath as you just told me you're marrying someone else. You disgusting... you... _vile_... it was bad enough when I thought you wanted to keep me as a pet, but this- this is a thousand times worse, you want to go off and marry Pansy and keep me on the side as your little mudblood _whore_... and the worst thing about it, the very _worst_, is that even now I don't think you see anything wrong with it- I can see it in your eyes, you think I'm overreacting, you can't... understand why I'm- I'm- you probably think I ought to feel _privileged _or something-" she paused to catch her breath; she was nearly panting. She had been speaking rapidly, the words fairly tumbling over one another, and moreover, she had progressed from feeling as though she had been slapped to feeling as though she'd been punched several times in the stomach, so profound was her distress- "but let me tell you something, Draco Malfoy," she managed to continue at last, "you might consider me low-born, but I am above being _any_ man's whore- even one that... that... I..."

She trailed off again, and this time was unable to regain her composure, no matter how she tried. Wrapping her arms about herself, it was all she could do to keep herself from dissolving into tears. She wouldn't let him see her cry.

She wouldn't.

With a supreme effort, she managed to choke out, "just leave, Malfoy. Go away and leave me alone."

But he didn't move. He just stood there staring at her, with her handprint blazing red on his cheek, appearing more bewildered than anything else, as though he couldn't, for the life of him, pinpoint exactly when or why this conversation had gone all to hell. He looked stunned. It was as she had said. He literally could not grasp why his proposition should be unacceptable to her.

"Did you hear me?" Her voice was rising, as she attempted, with only partial success, to fight off the hysteria that was threatening to overwhelm her. "Leave, Malfoy, you bastard! _Go away and LEAVE ME ALONE!_" Realizing that she was still clutching the photos of the cottage, she hurled them at him. They flew every which way, as photos will, before fluttering forlornly to his feet.

That was what seemed to finally break the odd, uncomprehending sort of paralysis that had been gripping him. "Fine," he said, in a flat, overly calm voice, "fine, Granger," and he turned on his heel and made for the door.

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He paused, however, just inside the doorway- though he did not look back at her. Internally, a battle was raging that he gave no outward indication of, except for the tension in his shoulders and his steadfast refusal to look back. He stayed that way for a long, agonizing moment, before one half of his warring soul won. He reached into a pocket and retrieved a small, burgundy jewelry box. Again he stood still for a long time, staring down at the box, which he held with an odd gentleness in his left hand, while his right was so tightly clenched the knuckles were white... then he placed it carefully on the top of a waist-high bookshelf that ran the length of the room and terminated where he was standing, at the door. He spoke without turning, in a voice that was soft, yet so tight that it indicated something within him was dangerously close to snapping.

"This ring is for you, Granger. I don't care what you do with it; keep it or not, as you see fit. It doesn't matter anymore. But _do not_ give it away to anyone else, and if you dispose of it, do it in such a way that no one else will find it. It has been custom tailored to you; to your magic. It carries wards and enchantments meant to protect you, that would be... detrimental to anyone else who tried to wear it. It is intended only to be handled by you or me, or-"

_You or me, or any offspring we produce_- that was what he'd been going to say, as that was, indeed, the stipulation upon the ring... but it seemed an utterly ridiculous thing to say under the circumstances, so-

he broke off abruptly, gave his head a single, sharp shake, and opened the door.

"Good bye, Granger," he said, his voice now sounding nearly strangled. "I..." he swallowed hard. "Good luck. Not that you'll need it; you-" he broke off, unable to say any more, stepped through the door, and closed it firmly behind him.

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Once on the other side of it, he leaned back against the cool, smooth wood, immensely grateful to the door for simply existing in that place and time; for being something solid to hold him up.

He thought that without it, he may very well have collapsed.

The reason was simple, really; his life was now officially void of any remote possibility for true happiness. A loveless marriage to Pansy would have been bearable if he could have known that he had Hermione too- two relationships, two families, two _lives_; one for his duty, the other solely for himself- he could have pulled it off- he certainly could have afforded it- he could have been a happy man. But now that chance was gone; only duty remained, and he would do his duty; it had never been up for debate- he had always been going to do right by his family.

But God, his life looked bleak.

He closed his hand around the other ring box in his pocket. The ring that had been chosen for duty. The diamond ring that had been selected based purely on size, cost and prestige. The stone was huge and flawless; Pansy would love it.

He grimaced, before schooling his face into a smooth mask of indifference and setting off down the corridor to do what he had always known he would have to do upon leaving Hogwarts; ask Pansy to be his wife.

The corridor looked darker, somehow, than it had before he and Hermione had entered the deserted classroom, even though no more than twenty minutes could have passed.

The whole world looked darker to him.

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He never would have guessed how bad of a time Hermione was having within the classroom, on the other side of the door he had closed. She had managed to hold herself together in front of him; barely, but still- outwardly displaying only indignant fury at his so-called proposal, refusing to let him see how utterly and completely devastated she had been when the realization had hit her of just what he was asking her to do- to be.

That was all he thought of her.

He'd wanted her to be his mistress, his... his lifelong whore. While he married Pansy Parkinson and raised a "respectable" pureblood family (if by respectable one meant the next generation of Muggle hating fanatics and Death Eaters) with _her_, he wanted Hermione to set up house in a place of his choosing and keep herself available to him and only him for the rest of her life, to be visited by him- _another woman's husband_- whenever his schedule and whim allowed it.

It was disgusting and degrading and... and the worst thing, the very _worst_, was that she was so damn far gone in love with him that for a split second she had actually considered it.

She had actually considered being a Muggle-hating Death Eater's whore.

Nausea rolled over her, sudden and intense, completely unexpected, and in the next instant she found herself bent double over the nearest wooden desk, vomiting onto the floor, her whole body heaving with an intensity that she had never experienced before in her life- she was practically convulsing, seeing bursts of light before her eyes with every body wracking heave.

It went on for a long, long time- until there was nothing left, and then for longer still until even the dry heaves had subsided, leaving her shaking and exhausted. She finally pushed herself up off the desk and stumbled backward, fetching up against the wall where her legs gave out, sliding her down to the floor, amidst the scattered photos of the little house.

_Her_ little house.

It was astonishing that she had any energy left to cry, but cry she did then, and her sobs came with nearly as much force as had her illness of a moment ago... it was almost as though she were a puppet being controlled by some force outside herself, because she certainly didn't want to be crying like this- with such intensity that it was nearly physically painful- but she couldn't help herself. She couldn't stop.

First she had heaved herself dry; now she sobbed herself dry.

She then spent a very long time sitting at the base of the wall, leaning back against it, her eyes red and glazed and out of focus, looking nothing short of catatonic, not moving except for the occasional hiccup as her hitching breath returned to normal.

By the time she dragged herself to her feet, pulled out her wand and vanished the mess she'd made on the floor with a flick of her wrist- vanished the photos right along with it- the light coming through the classroom windows was slanted and had more than a tint of evening about it, and Draco was an engaged man.

She moved slowly, unsteadily, to the door, reached out and grasped the handle, and was about to pass through it- when her attention was caught by the small burgundy box sitting on the shelf, just inches from her.

A violent shudder passed through her whole body just looking at it.

She knew she should leave it sitting right where it was... to hell with what he had said about it, it was probably all lies anyway, just as anything he had ever professed to feel for her had obviously been a lie... not that he had ever said he loved her- he hadn't- she had just been damn fool enough to believe that she'd caught glimpses of love in some of the other things he'd said, in some of the things he'd done...

"Stupid," she whispered hoarsely, aloud. "Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid..."

How could she have been so stupid? Why was she still acting stupid even now? For against her better judgment, she was reaching for the box.

The velvet of the box was smooth and soft under her fingers. She popped it open and drew in a deep, unsteady breath, staring down at the ring nestled within.

"Oh God," she breathed, "Oh, Draco." Even though she hadn't the strength left to weep, tears were leaking from her eyes, a steady slow trickle that she was only marginally aware of.

The ring was exquisite. It suited her taste perfectly; she herself could not have selected a ring she would have liked better.

No diamond ring, this- and that was just fine with Hermione, she was not a diamond kind of girl. Sure, she allowed that they were pretty... but in a cold and glittering, impersonal way. Diamonds reminded Hermione of ice, and her personality, her spirit, was much better matched to fire. And this ring had fire, in abundance.

It was the most beautiful opal she had ever seen. It was a smooth oval cabochon, about the size of one of her fingernails, in a plain bezel setting of what appeared to be pure gold. She held the open box up to the evening light streaming through the nearest window and tilted it first this way, then that. As the stone was moved thus, great rolling flashes of color chased themselves across its surface; scarlet, then green, then scarlet again. As with the best quality opals, all colors of the rainbow flashed in the light; but by far the most intense colors in this particular stone were those flashes of deep crimson red and emerald green.

It took her breath away. The stone itself, in its understated setting, but not only that- the _symbolism_ of it, with the red and green, and the amount of care that must have gone into selecting it- just the right stone that had those qualities- for unlike diamonds, which all looked more or less the same; the good ones sparkly, the poor ones dull- Hermione knew that each and every opal in the world was unique- no one exactly like any other. And that fact suggested that Draco had looked very hard for this one.

But why?

Why, when he had made it crystal clear- diamond clear, she thought, with a bitter, ironic curve of her mouth- through his proposal that he was not in love with her, that what he felt was, was... an odd combination of affection and desire; an emotion strong enough, certainly, that he had suggested spending the rest of their lives together... in a strange, twisted way that would benefit only him... but it wasn't love, not really.

If he loved her- _really loved her_- he'd have asked her to marry him. This would have been her engagement ring. Not a symbol of his "ownership" of some sort of- of- mudblood concubine.

Which, she told herself firmly, was exactly what it had been intended to be.

She snapped the box shut.

But she didn't put it down.

She couldn't.

She rationalized it by recalling his words- that the ring could be dangerous to anyone but her- so surely she had an obligation to safeguard it, to see that it didn't fall into the wrong hands; the wrong hands being anyone's hands but her own.

That was how she rationalized it, but the truth was, she still loved Draco, and she loved this ring. She wouldn't wear it. That would be weakness; it was unthinkable, after he had insulted her so. She wouldn't be that weak.

But she would keep it. She thrust it deep into her pocket.

She would keep it always.

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So intense had been her outburst that she had literally made herself ill; she was flushed and feverish as she made her way back to Gryffindor Tower, her hair sticking to her hot, tear streaked face in damp tendrils, her arms wrapped protectively about herself as if she were cold- because, quite suddenly, she was. She felt chilled to the bone in the aftermath of all that had happened, both physically and emotionally; her heart, in particular, felt as if it had been put on ice. She shivered.

If Draco had seen her, he may well have left his brand new fiancée without a second thought in order to rush to her, tend her, use his healing magic on her- in short, he would have been frantic.

But Draco didn't see her.

He was on his way to Hogsmeade with Pansy and several other seventh-year Slytherins- it was against the rules, of course, for students to leave the school grounds on the final night of the term, but it just so happened that Draco knew about this really nifty passageway that originated behind a certain statue of a one-eyed witch... and, as he smirkingly pointed out to his friends (his carefree façade firmly in place and perfect), what would the faculty do if they caught them- expel them? They were celebrating their last ever night at Hogwarts- and, of course, his engagement.

So Hermione was unimpeded as she approached the fat lady, spoke the password in a small, dull, miserable voice, and climbed, somewhat unsteadily, through the portrait hole.

The world was wavering as she straightened up again, one hand pressed against the wall of the common room to steady herself; wavering and going dark around the edges, and beginning to spin slowly, lazily, sickeningly.

"Hermione? What's the matter? _Hermione!_"

She heard Harry and Ron's voices as if from a long way off; watched them with a strange, floaty sort of detachment- blinking her eyes in an attempt to keep them focused, as her two best friends ran toward her from where, having finished their packing, they had been playing chess by the fire at the opposite end of the room. They had jumped up so quickly at the sight of her that they had upset their game; several pieces had fallen to the floor and one pawn had rolled into the fireplace. It was screaming.

That was the icing on top of the cake of surreality her day had become.

She stepped away from the wall, knowing full well, even as she did so, that she would not be able to stand unsupported.

And true to her prediction, in the next instant she was falling, and her two best friends reached her just barely in time for Ron, drawing swiftly on his Keeper reflexes, to catch her as she fell. He eased her to the floor, going down with her, so that she lay cradled in his lap, and the last thing she saw on her last full day at Hogwarts was her best friends' faces looming over her, pale, stricken, and Ron was smoothing back her hair as Harry shouted for someone to get McGonagall or Pomfrey or better yet, both-

Then everything went dark.

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(A/N: what, you think that's the end? Sucker! This is nowhere near over. If it were one of those old-timey movies like "Gone With The Wind", this would be where the screen says _INTERMISSION._ And there _will_, in fact, be an intermission of sorts here; I don't see updating for at least a month, as I'm going out of town tomorrow for two weeks and will have no access to a computer, and after I return from that trip I have some serious catching up to do on "Sometimes", which I just can't seem to quite get the hang of again after losing a whole chapter... man, is rewriting a bitch, it just never comes as naturally as the first time around, it's so frustrating because I _know_ it was better before! Then, there's this new fic exchange I've entered with a deadline of September 27th... so anyway, yeah, I wouldn't look for an update on this until October. But it has become by far my favorite story to write so never fear, _it will be finished!_)


	10. Chapter 10: Pinky

Six months passed.

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On the day they had left Hogwarts, Hermione had awoken in the hospital wing, feeling wrung out, but otherwise all right. Physically, anyway. Her emotional state was a different story altogether. Harry and Ron had been asleep in cushy armchairs that had been magicked into the ward, on either side of her bed; Harry curled up with his head in the crook of one arm, glasses askew; Ron leaning forward with his head lying on his arms, which were criss-crossed on the edge of her bed.

Both boys had awoken as soon as she'd stirred, their faces instantly losing the peace of sleep and becoming lined with worry. She had had relatively little difficulty, however, in convincing them that all she had suffered was a panic attack at the moment it became real to her that after seven years she was actually leaving Hogwarts; she told them that she had been walking back from the library when it suddenly hit her that this was, in all likelihood, the last time she'd ever walk from the library back to Gryffindor Tower, and possibly the last time she'd ever climb through the portrait hole into the common room, since she hadn't been planning to leave the tower again until breakfast, from whence she would be getting straight onto the train.

Harry and Ron had fallen for it hook, line and sinker, their relief palpable, and afterwards it would become a joke amongst them that Hermione had been so attached to school she had actually fainted at the very thought of leaving... a joke that amused the boys greatly but held little humor for Hermione, since she knew it was a lie.

She'd hated lying to them... but telling the truth was unthinkable.

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She had seen Draco once more, on the train, in passing; she had brushed by him as he'd been stuffing Pansy's trunk into an overhead compartment. Their eyes had locked for just a fraction of a second, then she had seen his flash down to her hand- a lightning quick, searching glance, and she knew what he was looking for- the ring. He was checking to see if she was wearing the ring.

And then he was turning away, his mouth curving suddenly and violently down, and at the same instant she had caught sight of the glittering diamond ring on Pansy's finger- Pansy who'd standing possessively close to Draco as he continued to wrestle with her overstuffed trunk- and she'd just barely managed to fight down a new wave of nausea, her hand closing tight about the velvet box she carried in her pocket, and then Ron's arm was around her and he was guiding her from the compartment, sensing that something was wrong, though not knowing what- and it was over, just like that.

She hadn't seen him again.

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And now it was six months later and she was sitting at the small, scrubbed oak kitchen table in the flat she shared with Harry and Ron in a very respectable wizarding section of London, and it was nine-thirty on a Sunday morning and she was in her tatty, comfortable old chenille bathrobe and slippers, with her hair pulled back in a sensible ponytail, coffee close at hand, staring down at the morning's Daily Prophet and feeling suddenly very, very cold... and very fragile, also; as though if she moved too quickly she might break, might shatter into a million pieces.

PARKINSON MALFOY WEDDING A STUNNING AFFAIR read the headline.

She quickly scanned the article;

_The lavish nuptials of Pansy Parksinson and Draco Malfoy, the only children of their respective families, which took place yesterday evening on the grounds of the Malfoy Estate, have set a new standard for opulence in the wizarding world, and have united two very old and distinguished pureblooded wizarding families._

The article, which of course had been penned by none other that Rita Skeeter, journalist extraordinaire, queen of gossip in the wizarding world, went on to describe in minute detail the wedding attire, the decorations, the guest list, the flowers, the cake... and ended by inviting the reader to _turn to page six for a full-color photo spread of the event._

Hermione did so, sat staring down at the moving pictures for a long moment, feeling as though her blood had turned to ice water in her veins, then stood, pushing her chair abruptly back from the table so hard that it toppled over, clattering loudly on the kitchen's tiled floor.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice came drifting to her from the living room. "Everything all right in there?"

"Fine," she called back, her own voice strangled. "I just... um... fine."

She turned and fled into her room, having the presence of mind (she still was who she was, even in times of deep distress) to take the newspaper with her, so that the cause of her upset would not be identified. Locking the door behind her, she threw herself down on the bed, shoving the now badly wrinkled paper down between the headboard and wall.

As she'd expected, she soon heard footsteps from the living room into the kitchen, followed by the sound of the chair she'd left on the floor being righted- then the footsteps were approaching down the hallway, coming to a stop outside her door.

Well, of course he'd come after her. What sort of a roommate would he be if he hadn't? What sort of a friend? What sort of a _boyfriend?_ The two of them had been dating for about six weeks now.

"Hermione?" he called, sounding more puzzled than anything else. "Can I come in?"

_Oh, God. What am I going to tell him? _How could she explain the state she was in? She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed so that her feet were flat on the floor, folded her body so that her chest lay pressed against her thighs and her face was between her knees, then extended one hand toward the door and, with a murmured spell, caused it to unlock and swing gently open.

She heard Harry step inside, then shut the door behind him. She didn't look up as he crossed the room and settled himself beside her on the bed, causing the mattress to shift, and began rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles. She braced herself for the question she knew had to be coming next and that she couldn't for the life of her think of a believable answer- hell, even the truth wasn't a believable answer, not that she'd consider telling it... but Harry never asked her what had happened, or what was wrong. All he asked was,

"How can I help?"

It was just this, the sheer unselfish _Harryness_ of this question, that undid her. In the next instant she was all over him, pulling him down on top of her, sealing her mouth to his; desperate, hungry kisses muffling his sounds of surprise, and they had _never_ kissed like this before- sure, they'd kissed; who dates for six weeks and never kisses? But not with anything near this intensity. Harry was a... a tender kisser. A slow, gentle, nearly shy, one might almost say... _gallant_ kisser. Nothing like the hungry passion she'd sometimes experienced with Draco.

But the thought of those photographs in the paper, the thought of what Draco had been doing the previous night, _after _the wedding- what he might well be doing right now, on a lazy Sunday morning with his brand-new bride- begged to be scrubbed from her mind, and as far as she could see at the moment, the most effective way to do so would be by resurrecting some of that passion, and drowning herself in it, even if only for the moment.

She thought of the photos again, of the expressions on their faces, the wide, radiant smile that Pansy had been wearing. She thought of the pain that penetration brought and wondered _did Pansy hurt last night? Is she hurting now?_ And then scoffed bitterly at her own naivety; of course Pansy wouldn't be hurting now; that would suggest that she had been a virgin on her wedding night, when in fact, Hermione thought, Pansy and Draco had probably been- been- all along...

"_Ow!_"

"Harry? Oh my God, I'm so sorry!"

They both sat up, Harry rubbing ruefully at his lower lip, which Hermione had just bitten- not quite hard enough to draw blood, but... hard enough to kill the mood, anyway. Not that there had been much of a mood to begin with, just a desire to kill one sort of pain with another on Hermione's part, and as for Harry... well, throughout this entire interlude, Harry had been- and still was- more perplexed than anything.

"S'alright," he said, looking at her intently with troubled, dark green eyes. "But are you?"

"Yeah, I-" she tried to force a laugh. It came out sounding strangled. "I just don't... know what got into me," she said lamely.

It was a pretty piss-poor explanation for everything she'd just done; knocked over her chair in the kitchen, pelted into her room, slamming and locking the door, then thrown herself on him like some- some sort of- _hussy_. And she knew he wasn't buying it for a second. But he didn't press her. When something was bothering Harry, he hated being pressed to talk before he was ready, so now he extended to Hermione the same courtesy he expected from others. All he said was,

"Half an hour."

"Excuse me?" Hermione asked, brow knitting in confusion.

"Half an hour," Harry repeated. "That's how long you have to get ready, then I'm taking you out. You've been working way too hard lately- you worked fourteen hours yesterday, and it was Saturday! I'm taking you out for lunch, and for the afternoon, and don't you even think about bringing any paperwork along. So hop in the shower, dress warmly, and then meet me in the living room in half an hour."

And so saying, he planted a kiss on the tip of her nose, stood, and left the room.

Hermione glanced toward her headboard, torn between getting ready and taking one last look at those wedding photos. She knew it would be a terribly unhealthy thing to do; looking at them was like inflicting a mental equivalent of the Cruciatus Curse on herself. Nevertheless, she actually reached her hand down behind her pillow, before forcing herself to draw it back again, empty, and head into her adjoining bathroom for a quick shower. Lunch and an afternoon out would be just what she needed to take her mind off all this; if left at home, she was sure she'd spend the whole day poring over those photos and... well, and indulging in some combination or other of hysterical tears, laughter and screaming. Not great for the old psyche.

Thank Merlin for Harry; he always knew just what she needed. Harry was good for her.

She told herself that a lot.

And tried not to wonder just who it was that these repeated affirmations were meant to convince.

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Harry grinned at her when she entered the living room, dressed warmly as specified. He was holding her coat and scarf in one hand, and a small, rounded object in the other. After he'd handed her the outerwear, he held up the little object for her to see. It was a heavy little snow-globe of Hogwarts castle; it had been his Christmas present to her the previous year. He gestured at the lavishly trimmed Christmas tree in the corner of the room, a few presents already scattered haphazardly beneath it. The three roommates had had an amazing time of selecting it, bringing it home and decorating it the previous weekend; there's nothing quite like setting up one's first Christmas tree in one's first apartment- even though the actual Christmas morning festivities were slatted for the Weasley's house.

"I thought about using one of the ornaments," Harry said, "but they're all so fragile. Go on and take hold; I've turned it into a portkey for today."

Hermione reached out a grasped the snow-globe, her fingers brushing Harry's, then he said "activate," and they were spinning away.

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Hermione heard sleigh bells even before the world stopped spinning and she opened her eyes. She found herself standing in the town square of Hogemeade Village, directly beneath a fifteen meter tall outdoor Christmas tree which glittered with glass baubles the size of dinner plates, and glowed with charmed candles that barely flickered in the light snowfall.

"Tree to tree service," Harry said with a grin, one hand under her elbow to steady her on her feet.

"Oh, Harry," she breathed, "it's gorgeous!"

"C'mon," he said, taking her by the hand and leading her in the direction of the sleigh bells. "We're going on a sleigh ride around the lake and up to the castle. Then we'll have lunch, and do some Christmas shopping."

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Hours later they strolled the streets of the village arm in arm, looking no older than the upper year students from the school who had stayed over the holidays and were doing their shopping in town. Harry was piled with parcels, both his own and Hermione's, and as it had been quite a while since they'd taken lunch, he suggested they stop at the Three Broomsticks for a late afternoon butterbeer before heading home. Hermione was about to acquiesce, when she happened to glance down a side street and see something that made her throat go dry. It was the Hogsmeade library, and on the other side of it, she could just catch a peek of the most sweetly charming little house-

_Her little house_.

And in the next instant she was making hurried excuses to Harry, telling him there was something she wanted to look up in the library, it wouldn't take her half an hour, just go on and get a table and she'd join him at the pub, no really, he needn't come with her, he'd only be bored, go find a table and put those packages _down_, for Merlin's sake and she'd be right there, yes, she _promised_.

And before she knew it, before she could even question just what the hell she thought she was doing, she was standing on the sidewalk outside the cottage, looking up at it; crystalline snow blanketed the lawn and the roof, but the rose bushes, charmed against the cold, were as green and blooming as if it had been May, the front walk and the porch were clear of snow, the windows, with their diamond-leaded panes, were cheerily lit, and there was smoke curling from the two chimneys... and Hermione was overwhelmed by curiosity as to who was living here now, now that she had turned her own back on this lovely little place.

Her feet started her up the walk even as the rational part of her mind was screaming that this was madness; she should run the other way, run and never look back.

Then she was ringing the bell.

The oddest little creature opened the door.

It was a house elf; that much was immediately apparent. The truly odd thing was how it had dressed itself. The elf wore clothes and, as with Dobby, it was clear that she (at least Hermione fervently hoped it was a she) had selected them based entirely on whimsical preference, not practicality. Everything this elf wore, from head to toe, was pink. A tiara set with pink rhinestones sat perched atop her head, teetering precariously between her ears; she was clothed in a child's fluffy pink ballet tutu with a sequined bodice and a tulle skirt; pink tights, baggy on her short and spindly legs, terminated in fluffy pink bedroom slippers, and her hands and arms were encased in a pair of pink rubber dishwashing gloves, which on her, reached right up to her shoulders.

For a long moment, Hermione simply stared at the elf in astonishment, and the elf stared back, protuberant eyes wide with what looked like shocked recognition- though Hermione thought she would surely remember had she ever encountered this astonishing creature before. Then,

"Wait here one moment, miss," the elf squeaked abruptly, "Pinky is coming right back!" and she slammed the door shut in Hermione's face.

Hermione stood there at a loss for a long moment, wondering whether she ought to ring again, or simply leave- she had just decided on the latter course of action and was in the process of turning away when the door was flung open once more, and Pinky launched herself through it, hugging Hermione hard around the knees.

"You _is_ Miss Hermione!" the elf exclaimed, stepping back as Hermione stared down at her, open-mouthed. "You is, you is, you surely is!" And she held something out in one pink-gloved hand for Hermione to see- a framed photo.

Of herself.

The elf was nearly sobbing with joy. "Oh, miss... Pinky is so glad you have come at last! Mister Draco has given up hope, but Pinky never did, Pinky never did!" She seized Hermione by the hand and pulled her, too surprised to resist, into the warmth of the little house. "Welcome home, Miss Hermione, welcome home!"

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Ten minutes later, Hermione was seated at a tiny kitchen table that bore an uncanny resemblance to the one in her flat, having tea with Pinky, who sat opposite her on a spindly kitchen chair that was identical to the one Hermione occupied- with the exception that Pinky's chair sported a pink plastic booster seat. Upon leading her into the kitchen, Pinky had bade her be seated and immediately begun fussing about with the tea... but once it had been served, she'd plunked herself down across from Hermione without displaying a least bit of the servility Hermione had come to expect from house elves- and found so disturbing. Most house elves, Hermione knew, would consider it unthinkable to sit at a table and converse with a wizard or witch- yet, aside from calling her 'miss' at least twice a minute, Pinky treated Hermione as a long-lost friend, not as a mistress, or any type of superior at all. It was fascinating and refreshing and altogether wonderful, Hermione thought, and she wondered where on earth Draco had found this amazing little specimen.

"-house now, miss?"

Hermione blinked. "Pardon?"

"Are you ready to see the rest of your house now, miss?" Pinky repeated.

"Oh, I- yes, that would be lovely, but it's not _my_ house, really," Hermione protested.

"Oh, it surely is," Pinky said matter-of-factly. "Mister Draco is hiring Pinky to look after the place, but he is telling me it belongs to Miss Hermione. He is giving me the photo on my first day here and he is saying to me, he says, 'you keep this house nice for Miss Hermione, Pinky, she'll be coming soon,' because it _is _yours, miss_- _nice and legal, like. There is papers with your name on them and everything, miss, right up in the library."

"Library?" Hermione echoed faintly.

"Yes, yes, miss, come along."

The cottage was, Hermione soon discovered, one of the few wizarding buildings that was _not_, apparently, magicked to be more spacious inside than out. It seemed to her that it was every bit as snug and cozy as it had looked from the street. The downstairs consisted only of a front parlor with a cheerful fire burning in the little grate and a small Christmas tree, barely taller than Pinky herself, in a corner, all decked out in pink and silver ornaments; a dining room, the meticulously clean kitchen she'd lately been sitting in, and behind it a sun porch leading out to the rear garden. Then Pinky was whisking her upstairs to the second floor, which consisted solely of three bedrooms and one large bath. The smallest room was, as Hermione recalled Draco telling her once upon a time, Pinky's room. The fact that the elf would consider herself worthy of a room and not just a cupboard or some... some sort of a _den_ (Hermione shuddered, remembering Kreacher's decrepit little den at Grimmauld Place) again spoke volumes about the wonderful uniqueness of this elf. She seemed to have more self-confidence even than Dobby.

Pinky showed Hermione her own room first, as it was right at the top of the stairs. The room was... pink. Plush pink carpet covered the floor, so soft and deep that when Pinky stepped inside, her fuzzy little slippers actually sank a bit, and left indentations in the thick pile. The walls were, thankfully, a paler shade, but quite pink nonetheless. Only the lace curtains at the window, and the ceiling, were white. Pink glass wall sconces, one on each wall, bathed the room in a flickering, rosy light, and Hermione saw that over the child-sized bed- a gracefully curving sleigh bed painted pale pink and stenciled with lavender flowers on dainty green vines- hung a large, ornately framed Degas; ballerinas in bouffant pink skirts lined up at a practice barre. It didn't look like a print. It looked original.

The rest of the furniture in the room matched the bed; there was a bookcase, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe, all of which were diminutive in size and appeared to be handcrafted, and all of which were painted in the same pale pink with floral decoration. The final item of furniture was a plump little armchair with a matching footstool, both upholstered in white silk with a pattern of large, exuberant pink roses. It sat facing the room's single window, which had a view across the lake and up to Hogwarts castle. On the wall just inside the door was a row of pegs, upon which were hanging a dazzling assortment of pink hats, scarves, shawls and even a feather boa; at the end of the row of pegs hung a floor-length mirror in a pink enameled frame. Pink rhinestone jewelry was scattered all over the top of the dresser, though the room was otherwise as tidy as a pin.

Hermione hardly knew what to say as the elf positively glowed with pride. "My goodness," she managed at length, "this is... very pink!"

"Oh yes, miss," Pinky replied, her little head bobbing, ears flapping as she nodded vigorously. "Mister Draco is furnishing it for Pinky, he is ordering all the furniture _specially made!_ But that is not the best part, Miss Hermione-" Pinky beckoned Hermione closer, as though about to impart a monumental secret- "the best part is this!" She made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the accessories hanging from the wall pegs, the glittering jewelry strewn haphazardly about. "Pinky is buying these things in town, every weekend on her _day off_, and paying for them with _her own money!_"

"Pinky, I'm so proud of you," Hermione said, and she meant it. She'd only known the elf for a few minutes, but already she could feel the beginnings of a deep affection for the little oddball.

Pinky nodded gravely, accepting the compliment in all seriousness. "Mister Draco is a very generous employer," she said. "He is paying me more each week than I could possibly spend. I is saving the rest in this-" she indicated a large piggy bank on one of the shelves of the bookcase. The bank was pink, of course. "And," she finished at last, crossing to the bookcase and placing the framed photo of Hermione, which she'd carried upstairs with her, down in an empty space which Hermione supposed was its accustomed spot, "this is not all, miss. Mister Draco is paying a galleon every week into a retirement account he is setting up for Pinky at Gringott's Bank-" she whirled to face Hermione, beaming- "a real bank account in a real bank, with Pinky's name on it, miss!"

"He... sounds..." stammered Hermione, who was suddenly having a very hard time making words come. She paused, swallowed. "He sounds as if he cares about you very deeply, Pinky," she said, once she'd composed herself somewhat. "You _are_ lucky to have an employer like that."

The elf looked at her shrewdly for a long time. Finally, "Pinky is knowing how lucky she is, Miss Hermione," she said, "Mister Draco is a good and fair boss. But it is not Pinky he is caring deeply about. It is you, miss. He is loving you _so_ much it hurts him. Pinky can see that well enough, oh yes."

"He-" Hermione slumped back against the nearest pink wall, her knees suddenly feeling weak. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He got married, Pinky. Yesterday," she said, then added unnecessarily, "and not to me!"

Pinky merely shrugged at this. "I is not guessing why humans do the things they do," she said. "All I is knowing is that since Mister Draco is giving up on you coming here..." she trailed off for a moment, grappling with how to put her thoughts into words. Then, "since he is giving up, he is seeming... only half alive, miss." And then, without waiting for a reply, took a thunderstruck Hermione by the hand and pulled her from the room and down the little hallway.

The middle bedroom was middle-sized. It had been converted into a library with glass-fronted bookcases lining every wall but the outer one, which again showcased a single window with a view up to the castle, which was beginning to come alight in the dusk.

_Dusk!_ Hermione realized, and quickly checked her watch. It had been twenty minutes since she and Harry had parted ways; he would be expecting her in the pub in ten more. But surely she had time to browse through these books for just a moment or two...

She soon discovered that the left-hand wall was lined entirely with wizarding tomes, some incredibly ancient and rare, while the right held Muggle masterpieces, from Homer through Shakespeare, right up to Tolkien. The third bookcase, which was also the shortest because it terminated at the door, was empty, and Hermione realized with a pang that the intent must have been for her to fill it with books she acquired over a lifetime spent in this little house. A mahogany desk was set under the window, so that whoever sat at it could pause occasionally in their work to look out over lake and daydream. Hermione wondered what it would be like to watch the seasons change from that window.

The walls, where visible, were papered in a rich burgundy silk and the wall sconces, one on either side of the window and one beside the door, wore green glass shades. A pair of leather love seats sat facing each other in the center of the room, on a round green rug. The floors, otherwise, were bare dark wood. Hermione felt her breath begin to hitch. She thought she'd never seen a more perfect room in her life.

Then Pinky was tugging her again, insistently, out of the room and further down the hall to the last room on this floor; the hallway terminated at the door to the master bedroom. This room was larger than the other two put together, and was decorated in palest blue and silver, with an enormous mahogany four-poster bed dominating in the middle. This was the only bedroom that had a fireplace; it aligned with the foot of the bed, and a cheerful fire was burning in the grate. Hermione, now feeling decidedly dazed, felt Pinky squeeze her hand and heard the elf murmur, "you is taking your time looking around, miss. Pinky doesn't wish to intrude. You can find me downstairs if you is needing me." With that, the elf disengaged, and Hermione was vaguely aware of the pattering of her little slipper-clad feet heading back down the hallway toward the stairs.

She moved through the room as if in a dream, trailing her hand along the edge of the bed, feeling the rich texture of the silk duvet- ice blue, with a silver fleur-de-lis pattern embroidered over it. From there she wandered into the cottage's only bathroom, and discovered on a hook on the back of the door a Chinese silk robe, scarlet and gold, in exactly her size.

Her eyes were blurred by tears as she made her way back past the library, stopping to gaze inside longingly- but she knew full well that she was capable of spending hours in there, days- and her watch told her that she was already five minutes late to meet Harry. He would excuse her a few minutes; hours was another matter. It took a conscious act of will for her to step away from the door, continue down the hallway, and descend the stairs.

"Pinky," she called, impressed by the steady normalcy of her voice, as she rounded the corner into the parlor, "I'm very sorry, but I need to-"

And stopped abruptly, frozen in place, staring in shock.

At Draco Malfoy's head in the fireplace.

Staring right back at her.

Pinky, who'd been on her knees in front of the fireplace, presumably talking to Draco by floo, glanced over her shoulder, saw Hermione in the doorway, and scooted to the side, allowing the ex-almost-lovers an unobstructed view of one another.

"Oh no," Hermione said, backing up a step. "Oh no, no, no..."

"Granger," Draco said quietly, his tone cautious, as it was apparent that she was about to turn tail and flee. He didn't want her to do that; it was written all over his face. "Can we just talk?"

He ran a hand through his hair and Hermione's heart twisted; she had used to love that anxious, distracted gesture. He'd made it often during their all-night cramming sessions for the N.E.W.T.s. He looked as tired now as he ever had then, she realized- and not the sated, content sort of tiredness that one might expect to find in a new groom the day after his wedding, but a haggard, unhappy sort of fatigue. His voice was hoarse.

Hermione hovered in the doorway, indecisive, until Draco glanced behind himself and then said, "hold on, I'm coming through." That broke her paralysis; being in the same room with him via floo was hard enough but if he should actually come through... no, she couldn't handle that. To have him physically standing in front of her, solid, and another woman's husband- she couldn't bear it.

"No," she said again. She shook her head for emphasis and began backing steadily toward the front door. Draco's eyes narrowed, his face settling into an expression of dark determination, and he actually heaved himself, head and shoulders, through the fireplace just as Hermione's hand closed around the doorknob- then stopped abruptly, his silvery head cocked to the side, listening to something. A second later Hermione heard it too, with a sick jolt in her stomach- a woman's voice calling his name.

His _wife's_ voice calling his name.

'Damn it to _hell_," Draco snarled, shot her one last look of mingled frustration and despair, and then was gone in a soft 'woomf' of flame.

"Oh God," Hermione whispered, flung the door open, and fled the little cottage, the sudden cold stinging her cheeks, her eyes swimming with tears, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. She made it halfway down the front walk before she heard Pinky calling to her frantically- then she found herself turning, albeit reluctantly, to face the elf.

Pinky was hurrying down the walk toward her, distress written all over her small, homely face. "Miss Hermione," she cried, and Hermione detected tears in the elf's eyes to match her own, "you isn't leaving! You can't, Pinky has waited too long! I'm sorry, I'm sorry I floo'd Mister Draco, but he is making me promise to tell him as soon as you is coming here, and he is Pinky's boss, Pinky must... must do as he asks..." the elf was gasping now, tears overflowing her enormous eyes to streak down her cheeks. "But you mustn't leave, miss, this is _your house_, you is belonging here, please, oh please stay with Pinky! She is keeping this house only for you and she is... she is _lonely_ here all by herself!" And the little creature dissolved entirely into heart-wrenching sobs.

Hermione went down on her knees in the snow and pulled Pinky to her, in a tight hug. She was now crying as openly and disconsolately as the elf was. "I'm sorry, Pinky," she choked out, "you're a wonderful elf, you are, and this is a wonderful house, but it's _not_ mine, not really... _he's_ not mine, and so neither is any life that we could build here. I don't expect you to understand. But I have to go. I have to. And you should go back inside... you're not dressed for the snow. Go in before you catch your death of cold." She released the elf and struggled back to her feet, but Pinky did not return to the house. She stood on the walk calling after Hermione, even once the tearful girl had reached the sidewalk and turned down the street, back toward the center of town.

"Pinky is not giving up on you, miss," the elf shouted after her. "You is coming today, you will come back again, Pinky believes it! I is _not giving up!_"

Hermione swallowed a sob and broke into a run. Pinky could believe what _she_ liked, but she was never coming back here, never. It was far too painful. She just wanted to go home. Home to London. Home to her flat, with the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, decorated mostly with charmed miniature Quidditch brooms that zoomed in and out amongst the branches, home with the scrubbed-oak kitchen table and her tatty old chenille robe- it wasn't Chinese silk, but it was comfortable, it was _her._

She was already late; nearly fifteen minutes late, she saw, glancing at her watch once more. She needed to get to the Three Broomsticks.

Harry would be waiting for her.

Harry would take her home.


	11. Chapter 11: A Proposal Accepted

"Oh hell," Ron muttered, pausing in the act of refilling his date's glass with champagne. His eyes were fixed on a spot behind the two young women who sat across the table from him; Hannah- for that was who Ron's date was, Hannah Abbot, a Hufflepuff year-mate of his from Hogwarts, and quite a beautiful young woman to boot- and Hermione, whose dark eyes fixed on his face in consternation.

"What is it, Ron?" she asked.

Harry, who was seated beside Ron and across from Hermione, looked up from his menu, his eyes following the line of Ron's gaze. Hermione, who was looking now at her own date, saw Harry stiffen in his seat... barely- someone who didn't know Harry quite so well as she did would easily have missed it- but Hermione did not. She caught it, and began to turn in her seat to see what had disturbed both of "her boys" so deeply.

"Don't," Harry said quietly. Hermione stopped, and looked at him inquiringly. "Malfoy just came in," he explained, "I don't think he's noticed us yet. So don't turn around and stare at him." He addressed his next comment to Ron more than Hermione; "we're none of us in school anymore- we're all adults, so let's act like it, and trust him to do the same. Right?"

Ron finally tore his eyes away from Draco, looking extremely disgruntled. "Of all the people I didn't want to see here-" he muttered angrily.

"Is he-" Hermione interrupted, having suddenly gone very still in her chair. "Is-" she swallowed- "there anyone with him?"

Harry gave her a quick, queer look, then glanced beyond her again. "Yeah, it looks likes Parkinson... oh wait, I guess she'd be Malfoy now, too."

"Just what the world needs," Ron grumbled, "more obnoxious, stuck-up Malfoys... look at how the M'aitre D is fawning all over them... makes me _just sick_-"

Harry, Hermione, Ron and Hannah were- or had been, at least, until this less than welcome arrival- enjoying one of the best tables at 'Aberforth', wizarding London's hottest new restaurant- and tonight being New Year's Eve, the reservation list read like a who's who of top wizarding society. It should not have been surprising, therefore, that Draco Malfoy would escort his new bride to the eatery that had recently been written up by Rita Skeeter as "_The_ posh new place to be seen- and the food's good, too!"

Hermione sat as still as a statue, feeling like a deer caught in headlights, torn between relief that Draco was out of her line of vision, and a desperate desire to whirl about and _look_ at him- and at his wife. This only intensified when Ron rolled his eyes and said "oh great, he's looking this way," then, looking off past her shoulder again, pulled a very juvenile face. Hermione wondered just how close behind her Draco was sitting.

Thus what had started as quite a fun New Year's Eve out on the town was beginning to feel like torture to Hermione- _of all the times_, she thought unhappily, _of all the places!_

It was terribly unfortunate; that much was indisputable. But Harry and Ron were disinclined to leave, and apparently so was Malfoy- Hermione could only assume that he remained seated somewhere behind her, as Ron continued to shoot glares over her shoulder every so often as the meal progressed. Hermione would have liked nothing better than to flee the restaurant (while taking, if she were entirely honest with herself, a good, long gander at the new Mrs. Draco Malfoy on her way out), but could hardly let on to Ron and Harry that Malfoy's presence rattled her to the extent of wanting to call off their New Year's dinner- they'd had these reservations for over a month- without giving them serious cause to wonder exactly what it was about their former schoolmate that affected her so deeply. _Especially_ when she couldn't even see him from the angle of her seat.

So she had no choice but to endure.

Eventually, she relaxed enough to allow Hannah to draw her back into conversation; the Hufflepuff girl was easy to talk to; far brighter, more interesting, and a better conversationalist than most people gave her credit for. Hermione hoped Ron would stick with this one for more than a month or two... she'd be good for him, if he let her.

By dessert she was so wrapped up in discussing work with Hannah- the two of them taking turns regaling one another with stories from their new jobs, as well as post-Hogwarts gossip as to which of their former yearmates were now employed where, not to mention who was seeing whom, that Hermione had nearly forgotten Draco's presence somewhere in the restaurant behind her.

Nearly.

She also nearly missed it when Ron leaned in toward Harry- (who, she had noticed, had seemed unusually... edgy tonight, and was pushing his food restlessly around on his plate, hardly eating a thing- _is it Draco's presence here that's bothering him this much?_ she wondered briefly)- and muttered, aiming yet another dark look past Hermione's shoulder, "you still going through with it, mate? Even with _him_ right there?"

But being who she was, she didn't miss this either. Her eyes flew instantly to Harry, sensing that something big was afoot here- bigger than just a fancy dinner to ring in the New Year. What was going on? Her heart began to thud as a possibility occurred to her. Surely it couldn't be... he wasn't about to...?

He was.

Harry's green eyes met hers, then he shot Ron a seriously disgruntled sidelong look. "Thanks, Ron," he muttered back, "why don't you just ask her for me and steal the rest of my thunder while you're at it?"

Ron looked over at Hermione, startled, saw her watching his and Harry's conversation keenly, and had the grace to look chagrined. "Sorry, mate," he mumbled, as his face flushed the color of his hair.

Harry looked back to Hermione, ran his hand through his untidy black hair- a gesture strongly, painfully reminiscent of what Draco did when tired or anxious, and gave her a small smile. "I was going to wait for the countdown," he said ruefully, "but what the hell."

_Oh my God,_ Hermione thought numbly, _oh my God he's going to do it, he's really going to do it and Draco's right behind me, dear God in heaven what do I do?_

And then it was actually happening; Harry had come around to her side of the table and gone down on one knee, and suddenly all conversation in the restaurant ceased. There was a breathless hush and Hermione felt dozens of pairs of eyes on her, and on Harry- it wasn't every day, after all, that one took the family out for dinner- even at an exclusive place like this- and was rewarded with the opportunity to witness the Boy Who Lived proposing.

Hermione could hardly breathe. Her hands, of their own accord, rose- one covering her heart, the other her mouth. There was a rushing in her ears. Harry was proposing marriage to her, and all she could think about was how Draco, somewhere behind her, might be reacting right now.

_That isn't fair,_ she thought then, fiercely, _that isn't fair to Harry at all. This isn't about Draco sodding Malfoy, who's here with his sodding WIFE. This is about Harry and me. Harry is a good man. He's good for ME. Focus on Harry. On Harry._

He was speaking.

"-very long, but you've been my best friend for seven years, and I love you so much it scares me sometimes. You're everything I could ask for in a partner; you're brilliant, and brave, and gorgeous, and kind, and when I'm with you I understand how it feels to have a family and a home. I don't know what the future will bring-" (Hermione's throat constricted; she knew he was talking about the prophesy- he'd explained it to her and Ron near the end of seventh year) "-but if I'm able, I want nothing more than to build my future around you. Hermione, will you marry me?"

She simply stared at him for a moment longer in a state of shock, and there was such vulnerability in those green eyes, and God, she _did_ love him, she'd lay down her life for him if it was called for, in an instant and with no second thoughts, so if she would give her life _up_ for him, why not give it _over_ to him? Harry would never hurt or betray her; she would be safe and loved, and really, practically speaking- (and Hermione was very good at practically speaking)- what more was there to ask for in life?

She wasn't even aware of the tears that had begun running silently down her face until he reached up, still kneeling before her on the floor, and brushed them gently away.

She reached out to cup Harry's cheek in turn, then opened her mouth, only to surprised when a single, yet powerful sob immediately escaped her. She clamped down on it, hard, stifling it before any more could follow... and she even managed to smile a little through her tears as she choked out, "Harry... God, of course I'll marry you!"

The entire restaurant erupted into applause, and Ron, who now had quite a comfortable income as a professional Quidditch player, called for champagne all around.

00000

Hermione stepped out of the bathroom feeling moderately composed; composed enough, at any rate, to make a bee-line straight for Harry and ask to be taken home. She'd ducked in here shortly after the proposal, needing desperately to have a private moment, to pull herself together, and instead had fallen apart even further, locking herself in a stall and crying for ten solid minutes. Her eyes were finally dry now, though still red. But that was okay- lots of women cried when they were proposed to, right? It was an emotional event. Sure.

That was it.

It was an emotional event, and she was unaccustomed to allowing her emotions to get the better of her- she needed to get home where it was quiet, calm, where she could hear herself think. Harry would understand that, he knew her as well as she knew herself.

She glanced down at the sparkling ring on her finger. A diamond nearly the size of Pansy's. A voice in the back of her head whispered, _does he really know you that well, if he can choose a ring that runs so completely opposite to your taste?_ She quashed the voice immediately. Diamond engagement rings were traditional. So Harry was a traditionalist, what on earth was wrong with that? This ring was not a symbol of ownership, but rather of love and respect... so it was worth ten times more than the opal ring Draco'd given her, no matter how carefully selected that stone had been.

She straightened her shoulders. Time to find her fiancé and go home. She only hoped Draco had taken his wife and left; she really didn't want to see him on the way out. She didn't want to see his reaction to this.

00000

Draco hadn't left.

As became glaringly apparent in the next instant when, just as Hermione had taken a step back down the short hallway that led from the restrooms into the restaurant proper, a pair of strong arms came out of nowhere, grabbing her from behind, fast and hard. One hand covered her mouth while the other snaked around her waist, and she was yanked like that, unceremoniously, around a corner in the hall and into an even smaller service corridor that led into the kitchen.

Draco shoved her against the wall hard, then removed his hand from her mouth and pinned both of her shoulders (which were bare, as the dark blue dress robes she'd selected for this night had a daring, off- the-shoulder cut, and she feared that his fingers would bruise her exposed skin), holding her in place.

She glared furiously at him, but did not scream. It would have been pointless anyway; out in the dining area, the New Year's countdown was beginning. No one would have heard her. Draco had engineered the perfect opportunity for a private- albeit forced- conversation.

"Malfoy," she spat, her eyes narrowing to slits, "Let. Me. Go."

Draco shook his head. He was still gripping her shoulders so hard it hurt, but there was no anger in his eyes. Only a deep unhappiness and... was that a hint of _betrayal_ she saw? Could he be that big of a _hypocrite?_

"No," he said flatly. "You don't love him. You can't do this. You can't."

Hermione was practically speechless with disbelief and indignation. "You... you... how... _DARE_ you?" she finally managed to choke out. "After what... what you did... to _me_... how dare you try to tell me how to live my life? I don't have to listen to this. Let me go this _instant!_"

Draco shook his head, just once back and forth. It was a curt gesture, with an air of finality about it. "Not until you take that God-forsaken thing off," he said. "You're making an enormous mistake. I will not allow you to do this, Granger."

Hermione's indignation was ebbing now, to be replaced by pure, red fury. An angry flush tinted her cheeks. "I will never take it off," she retorted. "How you can even stand there and make demands of me when you... you... of all the hypocrisy... and you have _no idea_ what my feelings for Harry are- I've loved him for _years_, Malfoy, since I was eleven years old-"

"You're not _in love_ with him." Draco's tone was implacable, and the worst thing about his words was that they struck a resonating chord of truth deep within her.

That bloody well hurt.

As if she hadn't been hurt by him enough already.

"Harry is a good man," she said coldly. "He will give me a good life-"

"I could give you a good life."

"You offered me a _WHORE'S LIFE!_ Harry would never devalue me that way! Just go away, Malfoy, I've made my choice! Harry is twice the man you'll ever be!"

Draco released her shoulders at that, as suddenly as if her skin had burned him. He took a step back and for an instant she could see the hurt clear in his eyes, and felt almost remorseful- her last comment had obviously cut him to the quick.

Then his defenses kicked in. His eyes went cold and distant; his mouth straightened into a hard line.

And Hermione, who'd felt herself relenting just a little bit at the sight of that unexpected spark of pain in his eyes, hardened in return, moving in for the kill with words like daggers, honed to a fine point in hopes of penetrating the armored walls he had just so quickly and skillfully erected.

"Harry is my life now," she said, still heatedly. "I don't ever want to see you again! There is nothing I want from you, Draco Malfoy, not your wealth, not your cottage, not your love-"

"Well, that's good, then, Granger," Draco interrupted, a hint of his old drawl creeping back into his voice, and his eyes were like gray steel, "because I never offered you my love. I wanted you for one thing only, and I'm man enough to admit that hell, I _still_ want you for that... but have it your way, the whole 'scared little virgin' act was really starting to try my patience anyway." He allowed his eyes to sweep over her lewdly. "So," he asked conversationally, leaning back in toward her, pressing his palms to the wall on either side of her head to hold her in place, just as he had an eternity ago, in that classroom in Hogwarts before he'd given her her graduation gift, before everything had gone so horribly wrong- "have you given it up to scarhead yet? Have you become the whore you claim I tried to make you?"

Hermione felt herself on the verge of being sick. Tears started again in her eyes. "You unbelievable bastard," she whispered, and raised a hand to slap him- Merlin, did he have it coming _this_ time- but he caught her wrist and slammed it back against the wall, holding it in place.

"_Well?_" he asked relentlessly.

"No," she said, and thought she saw just the smallest, briefest flash of relief in his eyes- _he still thinks of me as a possession of his,_ she thought furiously, _not to be shared with anyone_- and added defiantly- (and falsely)- "just a whole lot of... _things involving tongues_."

Draco sucked in a sharp breath; it was as if she'd kicked him in the stomach. His gray eyes flickered- no longer were they cold and indifferent-seeming; they were dangerous now. He looked mad enough to kill. She tried to pull away, but it was no use; he had her pinned to the wall by her wrist, and his grip was like iron. When she shoved at his shoulder with her other hand, he grabbed it and pinned it too. The noise in the other room was reaching a crescendo as the diners raucously celebrated the arrival of a new year.

Twin tears streaked down Hermione's face, and she turned away from Draco, biting her lip, struggling to hold back the sobs that wanted to come. She was terrified, but her Gryffindor pride would not allow her to show him that. Dear God, she'd pushed him too far. This was no longer the Draco she knew and trusted... or _had_ trusted, once upon a time. She had no idea what this half-mad man who held her trapped against her will was going to do.

He bent towards her, ducking his head to the side so that when he next spoke, his lips were brushing her ear. Hermione shuddered; a single sob escaped her and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

"Thank _God_ I never sullied myself with you," Draco murmured, "you filthy little mudblood sl-"

"_Let her go. NOW._"

Hermione's eyes flew open, and revealed the fact that Draco was now facing down the business end of Hannah Abbot's wand- and it was clear from the expression of grim determination on her face that she meant business. The unassuming Hufflepuff girl looked downright intimidating... something Hermione wouldn't have thought possible for sweet, blonde little Hannah.

"I swear to Merlin, Malfoy, you let her go now or you'll regret it."

Draco released Hermione without a word, looking briefly once more into her eyes, and his guard was down again, and all she saw in his pale eyes now was pain; a howling pain and confusion to match her own. And that was even worse, really, than allowing herself to believe him some sort of a monster- he wasn't. His words and actions had been monstrous this night, but so had hers, God, so had hers. And then he was shouldering roughly past Hannah in the narrow corridor, and then he was gone.

Hermione suddenly couldn't seem to get enough air in her lungs. She attempted to drag in a hitching, sob-choked breath- it was no good. As her hands rose, seemingly of their own accord, to clutch at her temples in an unconscious gesture of profound distress, breaths piled on top of shallow, rapid breaths until she was hyperventilating.

She felt herself swamped in an emotional anguish more deep and desperate than she'd ever dreamed existed. She was going under. She thought she must surely drown.

Then Hannah was there, all cool, soothing hands and soft, lilting voice, drawing Hermione's own hands away from her face and pulling her gently, insistently, back toward the dining area. When they reached the place where the hall terminated in the restaurant's main room, Hannah stopped Hermione, grasping her lightly by the upper arms and instructing her to remain where she was.

"I'll go and get Harry and Ron," the blonde girl said, sensing that the very last thing Hermione would want to do right then was navigate her way through a large room of celebrating people. Hermione, continuing to battle tears in a vain attempt to simply catch her breath, nodded dumbly.

Then Hannah was gone too, and she was left alone.

It was then that her legs gave out, and she slid slowly down the wall, to land in a puddle of midnight blue organza, the skirt of her dress robes spreading out around her on the floor. She pulled her knees tightly up to her chest and laid her head down on them, and then she was sobbing in earnest, her flushed face pressed into the fabric of the robes, soaking it with tears; salty water stains that would never come out, while her arms wound tightly around her legs and her hands balled into fists, clenched in her skirt, fingernails biting into her palms through the sheer fabric.

That was how Harry found her a moment later, throwing himself to his knees beside her and pulling her into his arms without a word. She stiffened against him at first, then gave up and surrendered to his embrace, burying her face in his shoulder and wailing out her pain and grief and confusion as he gathered her even closer and began to rock her gently back and forth.

Ron and Hannah stood slightly off to the side, in the mouth of the hallway, blocking the couple on the floor from curious eyes, as more and more of the restaurant's patrons became aware of the new drama that was unfolding in their midst. Hermione, whose hearing seemed to be fading in and out, could make out only snippets of what Hannah was telling Ron in a low, urgent voice.

"-been gone a long time... went to check up on her in the women's room... Malfoy was... yes, _pinning_ her against the wall... always knew he was bad news, but... heard what he was saying to her... 'filthy little mudblood'... yes, Ron, I'm sure that's what he called her!... _Me?_ I'm fine... need to worry about... brought it on? Well, what do _you_ think?... always hated Harry, _and_ her too... couldn't stand to see them happy tonight, that's all..."

Ron's voice, when it came, was perfectly clear and angrier than Hermione had ever heard it.

"I am going to rip that bastard apart."

Then Harry was standing, bringing her up with him; she was only on her feet for a second before he scooped her into his arms and said simply, "Ron. Portkey home. Now, please."

Ron quickly "accio'd" the handiest item to them; an empty water goblet off a nearby table, and muttered the spell that would allow it to transport Harry and Hermione directly back to the living room of their flat. Passing it over to Harry, he said quietly, "you go ahead and get her home. I'll settle up here."

"Thanks mate," Harry said simply, pressed the portkey into Hermione's hand so that they were both holding it, and said "activate."

The young, engaged couple was whirled away.

00000

_CRASH!_

It was quite gratifying, Draco reflected with grim satisfaction, to be in a position where one could hurl against the wall crystal vases and objects d'art that were worth more than most Ministry officials earned in five years.

Let alone a runty, orphaned, halfbood, scarfaced Auror-in-training like Harry-Bloody-Potter, whose days, Draco happened to know, were severely numbered- things were coming to a head, the final battle would be fought soon, any fucking idiot should be able to see that, what the bloody hell had all those people in the restaurant been _celebrating_ for, were they _blind_? Or stupid, or delusional, or a little of all three? Merlin, how he wished he'd never gone, he'd only taken Pansy because she'd been yapping on about it since the damn place had opened! Did he ever regret it now, with a pounding headache and a vision that assailed him, with crystal, cruel clarity, _every fucking time_ he so much as closed his eyes, of Potter slipping an engagement ring onto Herm- Granger's- finger, and her words, God, her words- 'of _course_ I'll marry you'-

He grabbed a heavy, antique crystal paperweight off the nearby desk.

_CRASH!_

But back to the battle- it was coming, and when it arrived, Potter wouldn't stand a chance- the Dark Lord's power was growing by the day, his ranks were swelling, and he would grind Potter underfoot like an insect, Draco was certain of this, how could it be otherwise? The most powerful dark wizard of the age against an eighteen-year-old who was still in the beginning stages of his Auror training, what chance could Potter possibly stand? And when he was gone, who would take care of Hermione then?

Who would _bloody well protect her?_

And make no mistake, she would need protection in the aftermath of the war, in the Dark Lord's new world order.

If she survived the war at all.

NO. He didn't want to even think about that.

Wait. Why the bloody hell not? She'd made it crystal clear she had no more feelings for him whatsoever, why in Merlin's name should he care what happened to the damn mud- the damn-

He seized a china desk clock.

_CRASH!_

He was pacing back and forth like a caged animal in the confines of the small- well, small by Malfoy standards, anyway- study of the London townhouse that had been a wedding gift to him and Pansy from his parents. The newlyweds also had a wing of Malfoy Manor entirely to themselves, with a separate entrance and serving staff, and in the short time since they'd returned from their five-day honeymoon in the south of France, they'd split their time more or less fifty-fifty between the two residences. They were in London tonight simply because it was handy to that god-forsaken restaurant.

He was _never_ going back there again. If Pansy liked it, let her take her mother next time. Let her take _his _mother. Hell, let her take both their mothers, and twenty of her closest personal friends- he'd gladly foot the bill, but he wasn't setting foot inside again, wild thestrals couldn't drag him back through that door.

Back and forth he paced. Back and forth, back and forth, from the desk to the door, from the door to the desk, massaging his temples with the first two fingers of each hand when he wasn't hurling unfortunate breakables at the walls.

Granger. Potter. Granger. Potter. Hermione. Potter.

Hermione Potter.

_Hermione Bloody Fucking Potter._

GODDAMN IT.

He swept up a wedding photo of himself and Pansy in an ornate sterling frame, but before he could throw it, a throat was cleared directly behind him.

Draco froze in his tracks. Who in the hell could be in this room with him? Neither Pansy, nor any of the serving staff would dare intrude- and even if they took a mind to do so, they couldn't get in. He'd used an extremely complex locking spell on the door that he was confident Pansy would not be able to counter- he'd always been more magically apt than she was. Besides, she'd knocked timidly and called through the door half an hour ago, right after the crashing had begun, wanting to know if there was anything wrong, and he'd fed her some vague, placating nonsense and told her to go on up to bed.

He was sure she'd obeyed him. She always obeyed him. Just as his mother always obeyed his father. It was what well-bred, pureblooded wives _did_. They supervised their servants and redecorated their manors and went on shopping-and-brunch excursions and joined charitable organizations and produced well-bred, pureblooded babies, and overall, they deferred to their husbands. Pansy, so far, was flawless in her role. She spent her days in the company of wizarding London's top decorators, choosing paint colors and fabrics and silk wallpapers, crystal light fixtures and regency furniture and everything she could possibly want or need to make the townhouse "hers"- a project for which Draco had given her carte blanche- and her nights pinned between the satin sheets of their enormous bed and the body of her husband as he thrust into her, wondering why it was he never opened his eyes as they made love, why even during this most intimate of acts between a husband and wife, he seemed so distant, so inaccessible to her.

But she never questioned him. Not about that, not about anything. He couldn't recall her questioning him about a single thing since they'd gotten engaged- the last time she _had_ presumed to question him was the time she'd come upon him and Hermione in that corridor of Hogwarts... and, Draco had to concede, she'd probably been within her rights that time.

She hadn't questioned him earlier this night when he'd sent her to bed, telling her through the locked door that everything was fine, even though she'd known- _must_ have known- that that was patently not the case.

And so she couldn't possibly be in here now; she had neither the know-how nor even the inclination to break through his locking spell. But then-

_Then who in Merlin's name was in here with him?_

He went for his wand, then whirled about with near-feline speed and grace, while dropping into a defensive, dueling stance. He could hardly credit, after all, that someone sneaking into his study unannounced would have friendly intentions.

And there in front of him was-

"_Severus?_" He asked, astonished, straightening up and lowering his wand. He had stopped calling the older man 'professor' upon his graduation from Hogwarts- it had seemed reasonable to progress to a first-name basis, now that they were both adults, and considering that his former potions teacher had recently stood up for him as best man.

Snape regarded him steadily through dark eyes, from where his head rested, seemingly disembodied, in Draco's office fireplace. If anything, his expression could be said to be one of bland amusement.

"Draco," he acknowledged. Then, as those hooded, near-black eyes swept the wreckage-strewn room, he added, "problems?"

"No," Draco managed, "I- you surprised me, that's all. I thought... I didn't think the floo was on tonight," he finished, quite lamely.

"That hardly explains the sea of destruction I see spread out before me," Snape remarked calmly.

"It was..." Draco glanced down to put his wand away, saw that he was still clutching the framed wedding photo, and slowly, sheepishly, placed it back down on the edge of the desk. "Windy," he finally choked out.

Snape's left eyebrow shot up nearly to his hairline. "Really. Windy." The corner of his mouth twitched.

Draco sighed explosively and ran a hand through his near-colorless hair. "Can I help you with something, Severus? Would you like to come through?"

"Thank you, but I rather think not," Snape replied. "I believe it's safer for me here where the wind is not so violent... and stays _outside_ the castle."

_I do believe he's going to start laughing at me in a minute_, Draco thought in mounting irritation. "Then the reason you're here...?"

Ordinarily, he would never dream of being so abrupt with the man who was something of a cross between a mentor and a favorite uncle to him, but this really was a bad time. He was in a piss-poor mood, and would infinitely prefer to be alone at the moment.

The humor in Snape's eyes vanished as abruptly as if someone, somewhere, had thrown a switch. "The reason I'm here," he said, "it that's I'd like _you_ to come through into my office, if you have a moment. There is a matter of grave importance I wish to discuss with you."

Draco was taken aback. It was the middle of the night. Snape couldn't even have known that he'd be awake- he must have flooed just hoping. _If I hadn't been in the office, would he have tried me in the bedroom?_ Draco wondered, horrified by the thought. After all, though he may not be in love with his wife, not a night had gone by since the wedding that he hadn't taken advantage of her warm and willing body. And tonight would have been no exception. He even had new fuel for his fantasies, for the world he went to when he closed his eyes and drove himself in, hilt deep.

Hermione in her blue dress. That bloody sexy, off-the-shoulder blue dress. Merlin, if he'd gone upstairs when Pansy had, and Snape had tried him there- he felt heat rising to his cheeks.

_What is so bloody important that it can't wait until morning?_

Well, if it was that urgent, he'd better go and see.

"I'll be right there," he said, and Snape withdrew immediately, to give him room to come through.

Draco glanced around his study, muttered a quick "_Scourgify_" to vanish the mess, stepped into the large, ornate fireplace- the flames still had a greenish cast to them, signifying that Snape was holding the connection open for him- and was gone.

00000

(A/n: I have to pimp my new story "The Reason". It's a LOT more light hearted than this. If you want a break from perpetual angst, check it out!)


	12. Chapter 12: Bridal Gowns & Battle Plans

Chapter 12: Bridesmaid Dresses and Battle Plans

Draco sat stock still in a hard-backed chair before the fireplace of Snape's Hogwarts office, which adjoined his living quarters in the dungeons, a stiff drink forgotten in his hand and a look of utter, blank amazement on his face. He was staring at his former professor and lifelong family friend as if he'd never seen him before; his mouth was slightly agape, his usual cool demeanor failing him in his astonishment. His mind felt nearly as unhinged as his jaw.

"Drink up," Snape said, from where he sat nearby in a matching chair, motioning to the glass in Draco's hand. "You look like you need it."

Draco tossed the drink back almost mechanically, then deposited the glass, none too gently, on the small table between the two chairs. He leaned forward, his pale eyes blazing. "You mean to tell me," he said, speaking slowly, his mind still grappling with the enormous implications of what Snape had just revealed to him, "that when the time comes, you'll be fighting... _against_ us?"

"I'll be fighting with the Order," Snape confirmed, "but I don't want to fight against you, Draco. That's why I asked you here. That's why I'm telling you this. I... facing off against you on a battlefield would just about kill me. I want you to switch sides. I want you to fight with _me_."

"I... you..." Draco shook his head. "This is bloody insane. This is..." suddenly his eyes narrowed, "a trick! You're testing my loyalty to our cause. Who put you up to this? My father, or our Lord?"

"This is not a trick, Draco," Snape said quietly. "My life is in your hands now. If you tell your father, or the Dark Lord, about this conversation, I am a dead man. Because I mean what I say. The battle will be joined within two months' time, and when that time comes, I stand with the Order of the Phoenix. I wanted to tell you now, as soon as soon as the date of the attack was revealed to me, so that you could have time to think. I want to offer you a choice, Draco. I know you feel trapped. I want to help you see that there is another path available to you."

"I-" Draco swallowed. "I can't believe you would do this to us. To me! And... and where the hell do you get off telling me how _I_ feel?!" His voice was rising now. "You don't know the first thing about it! I'm not bloody _trapped!_ I've made my own decisions, I'm-"

"Miserable," Snape interjected.

Draco's silvery brows drew together in fury. "I. Am. _Not_. Miserable."

"You were miserable on your wedding day and you're miserable now. Your parents may not notice, or your bride, or even you, on a conscious level, because you don't _want_ to see... but it's glaringly obvious to anyone who actually cares to look. You _are_ trapped, trapped in a loveless marriage-"

"Pansy is perfect," Draco said coldly. "She's everything she should be."

"But _nothing you want_."

Four simple words. He should have been able to deny them, to laugh at them, scoff them away, throw them back in Snape's (_traitorous!_) face. They should have been ridiculous. But somehow they weren't. Those four simple words hit Draco like a fist driven hard into his gut.

Why?

Could it be because they rang with a truth that deep down, he couldn't deny?

_No! Hell no. More tricks and lies from a traitor and spy. Why in Merlin's name should I listen to him? Why should I trust anything he says when he's obviously been lying to me, and my father- all of us, for years! I have to get out of here before he manages to cloud my judgment any further._

He shot abruptly to his feet, his movements stiff, jerky.

He was still having trouble articulating himself; he was still stunned. "You don't-" he began, then stopped, took a deep breath, and tried again. "I can't. I won't. Whatever it is you're asking of me, the answer is no. I'm not going to leave my wife, I'm not going to abandon my cause, I'm not going to betray my family. No, Severus. Just... no. I'm also not going to speak a word of this conversation to anyone. You've always known I could be trusted with a secret, and I'm not going to betray you either, even... even though-" he broke off again, ran both hands through his hair. "I am going to hope," he spoke again, a moment later, "really hope that you come to your senses and that when the time comes, you will be... be where you belong. But if I have to fight you, Severus- if I have to fight you, I will."

He turned back toward the fireplace without another word. Dipping into the bowl of floo powder Snape kept on his mantle, he tossed a pinch into the flames, causing them to sizzle and burn green. Before he could step through, however, Snape's voice stopped him.

"Draco."

Draco paused, but did not turn back to face the older man.

"I will be where I belong, Draco. Will you?"

Draco simply stepped forward into the flames, still without looking back, but even as the floo began to whirl him away, he heard Snape call out a final time-

"Blood is Blood, Draco! It's all the same."

00000

"Great Merlin's ghost," the jeweler breathed, hunched over the ring he was inspecting, held carefully in a pair of miniature silver tongs. When he looked up at the young woman standing on the other side of the counter, lowering the magic-detecting loupe he'd been peering through, his eyes were wide.

"Well, young lady," he said in a hushed tone of reverence, "someone certainly loves _you_. This is... incredible. I've never seen anything like it before. You say you've no idea where it was purchased? I would have dearly loved to have met the man who made this ring."

"No, I'm sorry," Hermione said. "It was a gift, and I've no idea where he got it. But... it's true, then, what he said about the enchantments? It will harm anyone who tries to wear it except for me?"

"Oh my, yes," the Diagon Alley jeweler replied, placing the ring gingerly down on a small square of velvet which lay atop the counter. "This ring incorporates the most expertly crafted anti-theft spells I've ever seen. And it doesn't distinguish between a criminal intent upon stealing it, and, say, a girlfriend who simply wants to try it on for a moment. So you must be very, very careful with it, my dear. _Very_ careful indeed. The only people who can wear it with impunity are you, the gentleman who gave it to you, and any heirs the two of you may produce. Thereafter, as it is handed down through your family, direct descendents will always be able to handle it safely. But you must be sure, when passing it on, that each new owner of the ring understands the extreme danger inherent in letting anyone outside the family touch it." The jeweler's eyes strayed to the large diamond on Hermione's left ring finger. "I see the two of you are planning to make it official soon," he remarked pleasantly. "That is also a lovely stone, by the way. May I ask when the happy occasion will be?"

"Erm... May," Hermione stammered, seeing no reason to disabuse the man of his notion that both rings had been given her by the same person. She was still reeling from what he had just told her concerning children- _heirs. Our heirs and descendents would always be able to handle it safely. Draco wanted a family with me. A FAMILY._

"That's nice," the jeweler said vaguely; his eyes had been drawn back to the ring. His fascination with it seemed boundless. "Well, is there anything else I can help you with today? Have you thought about a wedding band for your husband-to-be yet? I have a wide selection of men's rings I would be happy to show you." His eyes remained riveted on the opal.

"Oh, I- no, no thank you," Hermione said. "I really was just curious about the opal ring. Aside from the anti-theft spells, are... are there any other enchantments on it?"

"Certainly," the jeweler replied. "The strongest protective wards I've ever seen on a piece of jewelry. You are extremely fortunate, Miss...?"

"Granger," Hermione supplied weakly.

"You are extremely fortunate, Miss Granger. The amount of effort that must have gone into the creation of this ring and its assorted protective wards and enchantments is staggering. I can say with perfect confidence that it cost your young man an absolute fortune to have this made. It is obvious that your safety and well-being are of primary importance to him. I have never before in all my years in this business encountered a piece of jewelry that has spoken so clearly to me of the love that must exist between its owners- the one who has given it, and the one who has received it. I cannot put across to you strongly enough just how rare a thing this is, or how lucky you should consider yourself, to be so dearly loved."

He looked up at her with a smile, but it faltered at the sight of her face. She looked positively ill. "Miss Granger, are you quite all right? Do you need to sit down?"

Hermione took a deep breath and forced a smile. "No, I... this is just a lot to take in, that's all. May I ask, is there any way to... to remove the enchantments from the ring?"

The jeweler stared at her for a moment as if she'd sprouted a second head. "Remove the enchantments?" he echoed at last, incredulously. "I can't imagine why you would wish to do such a thing. Do you quite understand, _no harm can befall you whilst you wear this ring?_ But it is a moot point in any event. The enchantments cannot be removed, for they were not simply placed on the ring once it was made. No, they were _forged_ into the ring as it was being created. They are woven into the very fabric of the gold itself. If for some unfathomable reason you do not want this ring, the only alternative would be to destroy it utterly, so that no one else could ever stumble across it."

Hermione felt something within her clench painfully at these words. In truth, she had come here intending to get rid of the ring- to see if the jeweler would care to buy it. It seemed wrong to keep it now that she was engaged; dishonest to Harry. But as the thought of losing it became real to her, she actually felt sick. What was she doing? She couldn't give up the ring- especially to this man, who would feel obligated, for all that he admired the craftsmanship involved, to destroy it; after all, once it left her possession, it would become a huge liability- a danger to anyone who should encounter it. She had accepted the ring; she was duty-bound to keep it. And what was more, she _wanted_ to keep it- now, she discovered, more than ever. Now that she was actually beginning to appreciate just what had gone into the creation of it.

Not that she'd ever break down and wear it, mind you. She had not changed her mind about that. Wearing it would be granting Draco a victory, and she was not about to do that, even if it was a victory he'd never know about. Or maybe he _would_ know about it. Who was to say that among the myriad enchantments on the ring, there wasn't one that would alert him, should she put it on? So wearing it remained absolutely out of the question.

But she couldn't bear to part with it, no matter what her intentions had been when she'd entered the shop.

"No, you're right, of course," she said, returning the ring to its tiny burgundy box, and slipping it back into her pocket. "I couldn't possibly give this up."

"Of course not," the jeweler replied, smiling again, appearing relieved. "It is a thing of beauty, in more ways than one. Congratulations again on your upcoming marriage, Miss Granger. And remember, when you're ready to look at men's wedding bands, I do have an extensive collection to choose from."

"I'll certainly bear that in mind. Thank you so much for your time." And with that, she was stepping out of the cozy little shop and into the bright chill of a bustling late January day in Diagon Alley.

00000

Checking her watch, she headed toward Gringott's; the front steps of the bank were where she had arranged to meet Hannah, one of her only two bridesmaids, for a dress-shopping excursion. Her other bridesmaid, Ginny, was still in Hogwarts, and so unable to attend this little fashion foray. She'd given Hermione and Hannah permission to select the bridesmaid gowns without her, just so long as they steered well clear of anything orange, pink or red. "Those are _so_ not a redhead's colors," she had declared, with a dramatic toss of her flaming tresses for emphasis. Hermione, smiling, had assured the younger girl that pigs would fly before she put any bridesmaids of _hers_ in orange dresses anyway- and Ginny had reminded her that wizards had bred flying pigs centuries ago... where did Hermione think such a random Muggle saying had originated, anyway? Why, from Muggle peasants who had _seen_ a flock pass overhead, and somehow escaped being Obliviated by the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, of course.

Truth be told, Hermione was rather less than ecstatic about this whole dress-shopping business anyway. She lacked a bride's usual enthusiasm for this, or really, _any_ aspect of the upcoming wedding. She would have been perfectly content to put on the one set of dress robes she already owned (aside from the one that had been ruined when she'd used it as a giant hanky on New Year's, that is) and wed Harry at the Ministry of Magic, in the wizarding equivalent of a simple civil ceremony.

It was Hannah and Ginny, together with Molly Weasley, who had convinced her, at the engagement party that had been held at the Weasleys' house a couple of days after the proposal, before Ginny had returned to Hogwarts for her final term, that a big white wedding really was called for in this case. She was marrying a hero after all, no matter that _she_ simply thought of him as Harry, her oldest friend. In the end, it was Molly's argument that she should "just think what it would do for morale, dear- such an occasion to celebrate for all those who are loyal to our cause! A joyous day to take everyone's mind off the trouble that's brewing!" that finally convinced her. (Little did she, or anyone else at the engagement party, guess that things would reach a head long before May. Snape knew, of course, but had yet to reveal his findings to the Order of the Phoenix- and had declined his invitation to the engagement party, much to Harry's relief.)

And Hermione's own mother had cinched it, when she and Harry had visited the Granger household for dinner the night following the engagement party, by sobbing into her linen napkin, managing to explain, only brokenly through her tears, that she'd always imagined the day she'd get to see her little girl, her only child, walk down the aisle a princess bride. Mrs. Granger didn't understand much about the wizarding world, but she understood that Harry was a very important person in it, and apparently rather wealthy as well- both of which factored into a very large celebration, in her opinion. The fact that he'd been raised Muggle, and so had something in common with his in-laws to be, was icing on the cake.

Hermione's father was less enthusiastic about the idea of his only daughter marrying when she was a mere eighteen years old- but he came around, unable to deny that when he'd allowed her to attend Hogwarts, he'd essentially given her his blessing to enter a world that he had understood, even then, had customs and traditions far different from those he knew. If it was common practice for people in the wizarding world to wed in their late teens and early twenties, he supposed it was acceptable for his daughter. After all, this was Hermione. She had always been uncannily bright, determined, and sure of what she wanted. She must, he reasoned, have put a great deal of thought into marrying the serious-eyed boy sitting beside her at the dinner table. After a long talk with Harry in front of the fire while Hermione helped her mother clear away the supper things, Mr. Granger had officially bestowed his blessing upon the young couple.

And so it was that a date had come to be set, early in May, during the Hogwarts Easter holidays, so that Ginny could be in attendance to fulfill her role as bridesmaid, and preparations had begun moving forward for a wedding to rival the recent Parkinson-Malfoy event in splendor, agreed to by Hermione more because it would be pleasing to others- her bridesmaids, her mother, Molly, all the people who would see it as a morale booster- than because it was what she really wanted.

Let the others have their fun with it. For Hermione, a wedding was a wedding. (Though she couldn't help wondering, in her heart of hearts, lying awake at three in the morning, whether she'd have felt so... _disassociated_ from all the preparations if it had been Draco she'd been preparing to marry.) After all, marrying Harry was a purely practical decision, like so many she made. It was good for those around her, and it wasn't bad for her. In many ways, it would be good for her. Because really, she told herself sternly, it was smarter in the long run to base a marriage on a strong foundation of mutual friendship and affection than on passion; friendship lasted forever, while passion faded, it always faded in time- _didn't_ it?

So what if kissing Harry didn't make her go weak in the knees, like kissing Draco had? It was useless to dwell on Draco; kissing him- much less _marrying_ him- was no longer an avenue that was open to her... and really, it was all for the best. It was much healthier this way, much more... _normal_. She had known from the get-go, from the very first night she'd let him kiss her, that no good could possibly have come of it. And what a ride he'd taken her on. That's what she'd gotten for letting her emotions overrule her intellect. Well, it wasn't going to happen ever again. Marrying Harry made sense, it was a good, sound, _smart_ decision. And if the _manner_ in which she married him could bring joy to others, could raise spirits in a time of uncertainty and gathering darkness, well then so much the better.

So she told herself, over and over again.

00000

She really could have done without running into Pansy in the dress shop.

And it only made matters worse that the Slytherin newlywed was absolutely, perfectly polite to her- not warm, not friendly, but still, entirely civil. Deep down, Hermione would have preferred Pansy to have given her some good, solid ammunition for the loathing she felt... for she knew that hating Pansy was entirely irrational; Pansy hadn't taken Draco from her- he had never been hers to begin with. During her fits of logic, she argued with herself that she ought to feel sorry for Pansy; that the girl was actually a victim- a victim of arranged marriage, of having her fate decided for her callously by others, of having no choice but to go along with the decision of her parents, 'sold' into a loveless (it _was _loveless, right? _Right?_) and strategic match.

But though she argued herself in circles, it didn't change the fact that at the end of the day, She. Hated. Pansy. Malfoy.

And how.

And so she would rather, though she hardly admitted this even to herself, have had Pansy be her snotty old self; would rather have had her justify Hermione's dislike for her by exhibiting her own dislike for Hermione. But Pansy, it seemed, had decided that being a grown and married woman required a new and more mature disposition, and so when they met at the door of the shop- Hermione and Hannah entering just as Pansy and an older, snub-nosed woman who could only have been her mother were leaving, each daintily carrying a single bag whilst a house elf struggled along in tow, laden down with a ridiculously tall, tottering pile of boxes and sideways-stacked bags- Pansy simply met Hermione's dark eyes squarely with her blue ones, inclined her head slightly, murmured, "Granger," in acknowledgement, and started to brush past her- until her eyes settled on the diamond ring on Hermione's finger. Then the new Mrs. Malfoy paused again, gave a smile that was small, yet seemed genuine, remarked, "I was there that night- congratulations," and was gone.

As the door was swinging shut behind her, she heard Pansy's mother berating the elf- "keep up, now, Sheemie, and if you drop so much as _one_ of those parcels, it's your worthless little hide-" and then asking her daughter, "Granger? _Hermione_ Granger? Isn't that the mudblood that's engaged to that beastly Potter boy?"

She never heard Pansy's response, though, as the door clicked shut then, with a jingle of chimes.

She dragged in a deep, shuddering breath, and her eyes, as they darted about the shop, which overflowed with frothy robes and frilly dresses of every pastel hue, were those of a trapped animal. "I don't think I can do this," she said, on the edge of panic.

Hannah looked at her closely for a moment, long enough for Hermione to wonder whether the Hufflepuff sensed something deeper than just pre-wedding jitters, but then the blonde girl smiled and said, "I have never in my life met a woman with such an aversion to clothes shopping, Hermione! But don't you worry- you're here to be pampered. Just let me do all the work..." her voice trailed off as she moved away, clearly in her element, already beginning to rifle through the nearest rack of robes.

By the time they left the shop, orders had been placed for the wedding gown and both bridesmaid dresses, as well as a stunning new robe for Molly Weasley, who would be acting as a sort of surrogate mother of the groom. (As for Hermione's own, mother, well, she'd be doing her mother of the bride shopping at Harrods.)

Then it was off to order the formalwear for the men; they certainly could not, as Hannah pointed out with a theatrical roll of her eyes, be trusted to select their own wedding attire. Allowing that would be a disaster in the making.

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"_Tomorrow?_ You can't be serious! Tomorrow, Severus?!? And you're only just telling us _now_? How long have _you_ known?!"

Snape sighed and ran a hand through his lank black hair. He looked haggard; bone-weary as he took a moment to collect himself before addressing Molly's barrage of questions. The faces of all those crowded into Albus Dumbledore's office for this emergency Order of the Phoenix meeting were grim. It was the middle of the night- the wee hours of the morning of February the fourteenth, to be exact- and several of the Order members present had obviously climbed out of bed in order to answer the summons. Hermione, Harry and Ron were among those who'd been awakened by the urgent tapping of near-frantic express owls at their bedroom windows.

"I have known for some time, Molly," Snape said truthfully, at last. "I _am_ sorry, but this is the best I could do without jeopardizing my cover- and if I'd been found out, then in addition to my personally meeting a rather unpleasant end, the date of the attack would certainly have been changed- and, as the Order would no longer have a source inside the Death Eaters, there would then have been _no _warning. So it was a question of a few hours' warning or none at all. I hope you understand." His eyes, as he said this last, were not on Molly, but on Dumbledore himself.

"Of course I understand, dear boy," the headmaster said, his tone as gentle as his eyes were grave. "We are very grateful for the time you have provided us to prepare. And you say they are coming here?"

"Yes," Snape replied, "the Dark Lord's goal is to take the school. It is a symbolic gesture that he absolutely insists upon, though many of those in his inner circle have attempted to talk him out of it. They are coming to Hogwarts."

"Hm. And what of launching the attack on Valentine's Day? Is there a symbolic reason behind that as well?"

"That I'm afraid I do not know, headmaster."

"Well, in any event," Dumbledore said, his voice now taking on a brisk quality, "there is no time to be lost. Minerva, Severus, gather all of the children in your Houses and have them assemble in the Great Hall. Instruct the other Heads of House to do likewise. Arrange for portkey transportation to commence immediately, in groups of ten, directly from the Great Hall to Grimmauld Place, mandatory for all children years one through five- allow the sixth and seventh years the option of going and caring for the younger ones, or staying here to aid in the defense."

"Wait a minute, Albus!" Molly interjected. "You can't mean for _hundreds_ of children to spend the night in that house? Where will they all sleep? They'll be twenty to a room- they'll be sleeping in the parlor, the kitchen, the hallways!"

"Yes, Molly, they will," Dumbledore replied. "And they will be safe. Their comfort is of secondary importance to the fact that they will be well out of harm's way. So I fully intend for them to spend tonight there, and tomorrow night if necessary, and every night until God willing, the Death Eaters are subdued, and Hogwarts becomes a safe haven once more."

"But will there be no adults there?!"

"Several of the older students will accompany them, I am certain- but you are right, an adult presence is necessary. I was hoping that would be you."

Molly looked slowly from the headmaster to her husband, her eyes wide. "Arthur-"

"Go, Mol," he cut her off gently. "You're needed there. The boys and I will be fine." He forced a smile. "We'll know where to find you when it's all over." He pulled his wife into a brief, yet tender embrace.

"Well, come along then, Ginny," Molly said a moment later, as she straightened her shoulders and turned for the door- Ginny Weasley, at seventeen one of the order's newest members, and the school's Head Girl, had been the only current Hogwarts student summoned to the meeting. She'd been slouched against one wall along with her brothers, but now she straightened up abruptly, defiantly. "I'm not going anywhere, mum," she exclaimed. "I'm staying right here and defending the school!"

"Like hell you are!" came a chorus of male voices- five to be exact; every Weasley brother save one was present- (Percy's rift with his family remained unhealed, and he was not an Order member). A tumultuous five minutes later, Ginny followed her mother resentfully from the room, having been ordered to Grimmauld Place by her father, her brothers, and ultimately by Dumbledore himself, who had pointed out how important it would be to the younger children, to have their Head Girl with them in a time of such anxiety and fear.

As Snape and McGonagall prepared to exit as well, Dumbledore called out to the potions master one more time. "Severus- will you be returning to the Death Eaters tonight?"

Snape stopped and turned his dark eyes- as nearly black as human eyes could be- back onto the headmaster. "No, Albus," he said with quiet determination. "My ruse is up. I will not be returning to the Death Eaters ever. I remain here until the battle and when I fight, I fight with you." Then he was gone.

Dumbledore looked slowly around at those still gathered in his office. "Tomorrow we will meet the Death Eaters head on, out on the grounds," he said. "We will not allow them to set foot within this school. Now- some of you have others to contact, as per the emergency notification tree we planned to go into effect in just such a situation as this. The rest of you, I ask that you stay here tonight- and get what rest you can. And now, if you will excuse me, there are certain preparations I need to make."

00000

Harry and Hermione climbed the steps to Gryffindor Tower hand in hand. They had first made their way down to the Great Hall to help supervise the exodus of younger children from the soon-to-be embattled school, and while there, had spoken with a still-sullen Ginny, who'd given them permission to take her Head Girl room for the night, so that was where they were headed now, Ron just a step behind them, planning to bunk next door in the vacant Gryffindor Head Boy's room- it was just standing empty this year, as the current Head Boy was a Ravenclaw.

The moment they had said good night to Ron and closed Ginny's door behind them, Harry pulled Hermione into a fierce embrace, kissed her deeply, then, burying his face in her copious amounts of hair, said, "I don't want you out there tomorrow, love."

Hermione froze, then pulled back and away, confused incredulity written all over her face. "Wh- Harry- _what?_" she stammered, sure she must have misheard him.

But the look of grim determination that was settling over his face said otherwise- it said she'd heard him perfectly. "Harry," she whispered- she couldn't seem to make her voice rise above a whisper; she felt as though he'd knocked all the wind out of her- "you don't want me with you? You can't mean that."

Harry's expression softened, and he reached out to cup her cheek in his palm. "Hermione," he said quietly, "I _want_ you with me, every day of my life- except tomorrow. Except the one day when I walk into the greatest danger I will ever face. I do not want you exposed to that danger, to scores of people who not only hate you for the circumstances of your birth, but who will also see in you a perfect opportunity to hurt me. Please understand, I only want to keep you safe."

"Well, that's sweet, Harry," she managed, "in a completely outdated and medieval way-" and now she could feel her anger beginning to mount, "but you should know me better by now than to think for one minute that I'll actually go along with it. I have been in the thick of things with you since we were eleven years old- what on earth makes you think that now will be any different?! You honestly have some ridiculous notion that I'm about to let the men folk go off and fight this war, while I, what?- sit here in a rocking chair and knit baby blankets for our future children? Is that what you want, Harry Potter?! How _dare_ you be so condescending!"

"Hermione, will you please just listen-"

"No!" and now she was very nearly shouting. "I will _not_ listen to anymore of this chauvinistic nonsense! If this is truly how you feel, that I'm not worthy of standing beside you now, even after all we've been through together, then you can just _take this back_-" she started twisting at her engagement ring, attempting to pull it off.

'Hermione, no! For God's sake- NO!" He grabbed her hands in both of his and held on doggedly, for all that she tried to wrench herself away. "Hermione- _HERMIONE!_"

It was the sheer desperation in his voice that finally caused her to raise her eyes to his again, and what she saw was a man on the edge of panic.

"Hermione," Harry said, still holding both her hands in his, "I'm- damnit, I'm scared. I'm scared of dying tomorrow, but I'm even more scared of losing you. You are more important to me than my own life, and- and if they somehow manage to get a hold of you tomorrow, if they- if-" he couldn't seem to bring himself to articulate his deepest fear. He broke off, releasing her hands and running his own through his perpetually messy black hair. "Look, if I lose you, it's over," he said, "everything- the war, everything. Because I don't think I could defeat Voldemort if you were-" he paused again, but then swallowed hard and choked out the word; "dead. I don't think I could fight him- I don't think I could do _anything_. I'd give up. So you see, the future of the world could hinge on what you say to me right now. Please, Hermione, please tell me that you will stay off that battlefield tomorrow!"

Hermione just stared at him for a long moment, stunned speechless. In the wake of this sort of admission, this sort of _plea_, what could she do?

"Hermione," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper now itself, "Hermione, please."

She slumped defeatedly.

"Fine, Harry," she said dully. "If it's that important to you, that- that you honestly think it could change the tide of the war, then I won't fight beside you, though there's no place I'd rather be. Just... fine."

Harry reached out for her then, but she shied away, turning her back on him and heading toward the bathroom to prepare for bed (little guessing that a similar scene was playing out miles away, as Draco Malfoy strictly forbade his new wife from accompanying him to the battleground tomorrow, ordering her to stay in the manor with his mother.)

Harry spoke from behind her, but she didn't turn around.

"You can be as angry as you like with me, just so long as you stay safe. I can cope with you never speaking to me _again_, if that's the price I must pay for knowing you're out of harm's way. I love you that much. Seeing you out there tomorrow- it would kill me."

"You won't see me out there tomorrow," she said flatly, and closed the bathroom door behind her.

00000

When she emerged ten minutes later, it was to find that Harry had pushed two large, soft armchairs together in front of the fireplace and settled into them along with one blanket and one pillow purloined from Ginny's bed. His face was hidden from her by the angle of the chairs. Fighting tears, she climbed into the bed alone. She'd imagined, ascending the stairs from the Great Hall, that tonight would be the night she'd give herself over to Harry- that the two of them would make love for the first time on this bed- what Ginny didn't know would never hurt her, and besides, this had been Hermione's bed just last year, and she couldn't help feeling a bit of lingering ownership- then sleep in each other's arms and face the morning, and whatever it brought with it, together; united.

But obviously, that wasn't going to happen now.

The morrow would bring a battle that could very well claim one or both of their lives- (after all, even if she _were _to stay holed up in the castle, that was no guarantee of safety; what if the Death Eaters managed to breach the defenses?)- and instead of clinging to each other as they should have been, they were arguing. It felt wretched.

Still, she never wavered in her resolve. She had promised Harry that she wouldn't fight beside him tomorrow- she hadn't promised him that she wouldn't fight. The battle would be huge; its outcome would decide the fate of the wizarding world. And just because she couldn't stand with Harry on the front lines didn't mean she had to stay out of the fray altogether. She would never sit alone in the castle and wring her hands while her fiancé and all her friends were out there putting their lives on the line. Never.

_You won't see me out there tomorrow,_ she repeated silently, _but that doesn't mean I won't be there, Harry. That doesn't mean I won't be there._

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(A/N: I know, I know, no Draco/Hermione interaction in this entire chapter, which was, by the way, nine full pages long on my word processor, in itty bitty little 10 point font... so I apologize for that. It's all just setting up for the next chapter, in which there is a battle ((DUH)) and the proverbial shit really _hits the fan!!!_ Woo-hoo! Draco and Hermione thrown together as opponents in a life-and-death situation, can you say cool?!?)


	13. Chapter 13: Mudblood Tastes Good

The first time Pansy Malfoy ever disobeyed her husband was, as it turned out, also the last.

The last time she did _anything_, in point of fact, except become a statistic; one of the countless young people to fall in battle that day, their lives- their potential- cut forever short.

She had promised Draco she'd stay in the manor with his mother- he'd made her promise, made her absolutely _swear_- because he'd been able to see perfectly well that she intended to stand with the Death Eaters, to fight alongside him. There would be plenty of women fighting for Voldemort, she'd argued, and he had agreed- yes, there _would_ be plenty of women fighting for Voldemort, but _his _wife was not going to be among them. He had by this time been on several Death Eater missions, and, he had told her heatedly, in his capacity as medic had seen just what could happen to people in magical confrontations and skirmishes. And this would be no skirmish; this would be outright, no-holds-barred war. Things were going to get uglier on that battlefield than sheltered little Pansy Malfoy could even begin to comprehend.

And that was true. Pansy had never dreamed what she'd be walking into. All she'd known was that she couldn't let her Draco go out and risk his life with out at least trying to protect him. (What she lacked in magical ability, intelligence and attractiveness, she certainly made up for in sheer devotion.) Her death was entirely pointless, though… as, far from protecting her husband, she never even saw him once she reached the battlefield- at least, not until the very last few seconds of her life, and then it was purely by chance.

She'd been completely out of her depth, and had fallen to a curse within twenty minutes of taking her leave from Narcissa- (who had proved a very poor babysitter indeed, largely due to the fact that Lucius had doped her up with enormous quantities of sedatives before leaving the manor with Draco; the elder Mrs. Malfoy was, even under normal circumstances, almost ridiculously high-strung, and so Lucius had thought it the kindest thing he could do for his wife on this of all days)- and had apparated to Hogsmeade Village, making her way unknowingly past the very house that her husband had purchased for the woman he'd intended to make his mistress, and heading up to the embattled school. Had she died immediately she would have done so without ever having seen her husband again… but she lingered awhile, lying twisted painfully on her side in a patch of dirty, bloody snow, and so was granted the opportunity to say her final goodbye.

Draco, for his part, had been taking turns between fighting ferociously beside his father on the front lines, and doing what he could for the Death Eater wounded- he was actually racing back from the scene of the thickest fighting toward Voldemort's command post, which was near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, with an unconscious Malcolm Baddock floating beside him on a stretcher, when he saw her- his gaze attracted instantly to the familiar bright, long hair which was now spilled out on the ground around the petite figure in the too-large Death Eater robes.

_I know that hair,_ he thought first, uncomprehendingly, and then, _those are my robes,_ and finally, _that's my WIFE!_

Baddock, forgotten in an instant, went crashing to the ground.

"Pansy," Draco said, his voice cracking with disbelief. "_Pansy?_" He went down on his knees beside her, pulling her first over onto her back, straightening her, and then up, into his lap. A quick scan of her body with his wand, and he knew that she was beyond his help. The most he could do was to make her as comfortable as possible. He muttered the words of a pain-reducing spell.

Pansy's eyes fluttered open, focused on Draco with some difficulty. Then, astonishingly, she smiled. "You found me," she whispered, apparently determined to believe that Draco had done this deliberately rather than by sheer coincidental chance. Well, let her believe that if she wanted to; it was a small enough thing to do for her.

"Course I found you," he said, still reeling from the shock of holding his dying wife in his arms when she was supposed to have been safe at home with his mother. "What… what the bloody hell did you come here for, Pans?"

"I was… worried 'bout you," she managed, raising a cold hand to cup his cheek.

_And you thought getting yourself killed would help matters HOW?!?_ Draco wanted to shout at her, but he controlled himself. That would accomplish nothing. Instead he asked, brow furrowing with sudden anxiety, "mother's not here as well, is she?"

"Nugh." It was all Pansy could do for a negative. She paused for a long moment, rallying herself, then whispered, "sh'was… sleeping… when I left." Her hand fell away from his face, her strength nearly gone.

Draco could see clearly that time was running out. There was just one more thing to ask her. "Pansy- stay with me, just a moment more, okay? I have to know- did you see who did this to you? Pans? Do you know who it was?"

Her eyes fell shut, but she nodded. She swallowed thickly, preparing to speak for the last time. "He was… in school with us, I 'member… two years ahead, Ravenclaw. Charles… Charles…"

"Foster?" Draco asked urgently. He remembered the boy from the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. "Charles Foster?" Pansy nodded again. "H'was wearing… Auror robes. Draco… I love… y-y-unngh…"

She spoke no more.

He was a dutiful husband to the last. He held his wife in his arms as her body gave a final convulsive shudder and went still, gently closed her blue eyes once the last of the light had faded out of them. Standing, he took off his own cloak, regardless of the cold mid-February day, and covered her with it, head to foot, giving her corpse a dignity that had been denied to the dozens, hundreds of bodies that littered the ground around her, their staring, glassy eyes and grotesque, grimacing mouths open to the angry, roiling sky above them.

And then he went in search of her killer.

00000

It was hours later that he encountered Hermione, and he had the blood of dozens of wizards- including one Charles Foster, an unfortunate young Auror who had met with a particularly gruesome end- on his hands.

He sky was darkening; night was coming on, and the fighting was becoming more sporadic- there now appeared to be more combatants dead on the field than alive. Draco was hearing rumors that the fighting was being moved to other places; the Death Eaters' goal of taking Hogwarts apparently thwarted, some of them were leaving the school's grounds in order to move down into the village streets, or apparate to Diagon Alley and wreak havoc there- to inflict the most damage possible in the most places possible, in other words.

Not Draco, though. He was going to stay right here until this thing was finished one way or the other. He wasn't going to flee with his tail between his legs, and neither was he going to go slaughter innocents in Hogsmeade or anywhere else… so he remained, along with a handful of other hard-core Death Eater believers, searching grimly through the dusk for new adversaries.

And he found one.

She materialized out of the gloom in front of him, almost like an apparition.

She was staggering slightly as she walked, bleeding from a dozen small cuts and abrasions, looking every bit as bone-weary and wrung out as _he_ felt. She was dressed all in black; a long-sleeved black shirt, and trousers which disappeared into the tops of a pair of battered looking and too-large black boots; the only badge of identification she wore was a bright band of scarlet edged with gold around her right upper arm. Her hair hung in a single thick braid down her back nearly to her waist, but several dark curls had come loose and hung about her face, framing it. He had his wand trained on her, not knowing if she was friend or foe, before he saw her clearly- and hers, despite her apparent state of ragged exhaustion, was pointed unwaveringly at his chest as well.

Then their eyes met and recognition flared, and he knew in that instant that though they stood there as enemies on opposing sides of this brutal and bloody conflict, he could not hurt her; there was absolutely no power on earth that would be able to induce him to use his wand against her.

Still, he did not lower it, having no way of knowing whether she felt the same. He stood there wary, on guard, even when she swayed slightly on her feet and he wanted nothing more than to run to her, gather her into his arms and carry her away, far away from this place of carnage and death.

In the end, she lowered hers first, allowing him to finally follow suit.

"I don't want to fight you, Malfoy," she said wearily, her voice little more than a cracked whisper.

"Thank you," he said simply, his own voice croaky and unfamiliar to his ears, not really knowing what else to say, profoundly grateful that she was not going to force him into a confrontation he could have no hope of winning, because he could not have harmed her, even to save his own life.

She said nothing more, just turned away.

"Granger," he called, an edge of panic entering his voice- he didn't want to let her go, didn't want to see her wade back into the fray; it was dangerous here, for all that the heaviest fighting seemed to have passed- yes, still dangerous, and that protectiveness that had been born in him a year ago, that night he had found her injured in a dungeon corridor of Hogwarts, in dire need of his assistance though her pride had caused her to try to refuse it, even as badly hurt as she'd been- that protectiveness he had been sure would be gone by the next day, was still here now, _right now_, as strong as it had ever been- stronger, in fact- and compounded by something else, something he had been feeling and denying almost since that night, something which he suddenly, finally, and despairingly acknowledged for what it was.

He prided himself on his honesty, as un-Slytherin a trait as that was- and yet he had been deliberately fooling himself for months- in a desperate, and ultimately futile, attempt at self-preservation. But the truth was, he didn't only want her. He had never _only_ wanted her, he saw now, in a sudden, sickening flash of clarity. He loved her. God help him, he loved this girl. He was sworn to destroy her and all her kind…and he loved her so much it tore him up inside, loved her in a way that he had never, dutiful husband though he had been, loved his wife.

Pansy he had killed for. But Hermione he would die for.

"Granger," he said again. She stopped and half turned back toward him. She still remained silent, just waiting to hear what he had to say. And of all the thousand, thousand things he wanted, needed, craved to tell her, all that came out was, "be careful."

She didn't reply, just vanished back into the smoky dusk. His every instinct screamed at him to run after her; to catch her, to get her out of here by any means necessary- to _Stupefy_ her if he had had to, but to get her the hell off the battlefield.

But then a spell came at him from the side and he just barely had time to deflect it- someone with less than his almost preternatural reflexes would never have succeeded- and he was caught up once again in the business of simply staying alive. Nonetheless, after dispatching his assailant, he began moving determinedly in the direction he had seen her take.

00000

Hermione was way beyond exhausted.

She'd barely slept the night before, between fretting over Harry and plotting how to get around him and onto the battlefield… still furious and hurt, she hadn't even let him kiss her goodbye when he'd left, alongside Ron- _another chauvinist pig_, she thought bitterly- who'd been unable to contain the relief he'd felt when Harry'd told him that she had "decided" to wait out the battle- and had helpfully suggested that she join his mother and Ginny at Grimmauld Place.

"Fine," she'd said through angrily gritted teeth, and had portkeyed away on the spot- but the portkey she'd created out of a quill right in front of Harry and Ron hadn't taken her to Grimmauld Place, it had taken her back to her flat, where she'd rummaged through both Ron's and Harry's rooms until she'd managed to put together a decently serviceable combat outfit by combining a shirt of Ron's with a pair of Harry's pants and old boots- his feet were smaller than Ron's, closer to her own size, though she'd still had to stuff the toes with crumpled up pages of the Daily Prophet. The Order of the Phoenix armband was her own. She then had braided her hair, remembering the effect that wearing it that way had had during her single excursion with Draco, the day they had spent in Hogsmeade- her untamed hair was so much a part of her persona that no one had imagined the girl on Draco's arm could possibly have been bushy-headed Hermione Granger.

Returning to the school, she'd waited until Harry and the rest- (those he'd _deemed worthy_ to stand beside him)- had left the building to make their stand and make history- then had followed, once the battle had been joined and chaos reigned, and there was little chance of anyone recognizing her. She would have to be looked at fairly closely in order for that to happen, she'd reasoned, and by someone who knew her fairly well- and she thought there was little chance of that. Others on the battlefield would identify her as friend or foe based on what she was wearing, and would likely look no deeper. Besides which, all those who knew her well would be holding the very front line- _where she should be as well_- and so it was simply a matter of avoiding the area of the fiercest fighting.

Still, there'd been plenty to do.

Moving back and forth across the embattled school's grounds in long, sweeping arcs, she had methodically stunned and bound the Death Eaters she had come across, absolutely refusing, on principle, to use any spell stronger than _Stupefy_.

It had been a long day, full of hard knocks and close calls- _war_, she thought, for the umpteenth time, with weary incredulity; _I am fighting in a WAR._ It still didn't seem real to her. In fact, _everything_ was starting to seem slightly surreal, as her extreme fatigue finally began to get the better of her. She staggered slightly, blinked hard, focused on a tree not far from her- she was near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, in a part of the battlefield that was nearly deserted by now- and made her way over to lean against it for a moment, gathering her strength.

Pocketing her wand as she sagged, exhausted, against the trunk, she bent at the waist, bracing her elbows against her knees and dropping her face forward into her hands, covering her eyes and massaging her temples all at once. _Deep breaths_, she told herself. _Deep breaths, count to ten, pull yourself together, and you can head back up to the castle. You're done here- there's no one left to fight._

She had never been more wrong.

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Choosing that particular time and place to let her guard down was quite possibly the worst mistake Hermione ever made. For she wasn't alone, as became abundantly clear in the next instant, when she found herself seized and dragged abruptly upright by her braid, her arms pinned roughly to her sides. Caught off-guard as she was, she was completely immobilized before she even had a chance to react, the only thought in head being _there have to be two people doing this; one person alone couldn't hold me this well- how could I let two people just sneak up on me this way, HOW?_

And then a voice spoke in her ear, accompanied by a blast of foul breath, "well, well, what have we here?" The armband was ripped from her sleeve for closer inspection, as her braid was given a sharp jerk, causing a cry to spring to her throat, and tears to her eyes. She still hadn't gotten a clear look at her assailant- or assailants. "Order of the Phoenix," the voice continued, "and a nice little piece of ass too, down here all by her lonesome self. Well, that's all right, love- we'll keep you company. All four of us!"

_Four!_ Her mind screamed, in mounting hysteria, _there are FOUR? There are four and I didn't HEAR them?! Oh God, what am I going to do?_ Normally so cool under pressure, she found that most of her ability to think rationally had fled due to her state of near stumbling exhaustion and, now, her quickly mounting panic. She began to struggle, but to little avail. She couldn't reach her wand.

But real panic didn't set in until she saw just whose hands she'd fallen into.

"Turn her around," said a second voice close beside her- whoever was holding her braid, she thought- "let the boys have a look at her. They might know who she is, she seems close to them in age." She was jerked around to face this second speaker, and felt her stomach drop immediately right down through her- Harry's- boots- it was like she was looking into the future; Vincent Crabbe in twenty years.

"No," she whispered, in numb, all-encompassing horror, as the man turned toward the trees and shouted, "hey, Vince! Greg! Come on out, boys, its safe, this pretty little thing won't give us no trouble. Come and tell us if you know her!"

Crabbe and Goyle- the younger versions- lumbered out of the trees in which they'd presumably been hiding… _where they'd been told to hide by their fathers? Were Death Eaters even capable of that sort of familial love and protective instinct?_ and approached her where she was pinned between the older men.

Without preamble, Goyle-the-younger grabbed her roughly by the chin and jerked her face toward him, lowering his own head until they were eye to eye. Then, with a flare of recognition and a sharp intake of breath, he yanked his hand away, looking horrified.

"Aw, shit!" he exclaimed, holding his hand away from his body as if it had been contaminated by touching her.

"Well, who is she?" his father demanded, intrigued by his son's violent reaction.

It was Crabbe- whose expression, as he also stared at her, was just as shocked as his best friend's- that answered. "That's Draco's mudblood," he told his father, almost reverently. "You'd better let her go, dad. Draco said-" he paused and swallowed hard- "Draco said she belongs to him and if we ever so much as laid a finger on her he'd- he'd rip off our balls and serve them to us on a platter." He shuddered; Draco had clearly made one hell of an impression on him.

But the two older men, exchanging glances, merely grinned and chuckled lewdly. "Is that so?" the elder Crabbe asked, appearing not in the least intimidated (as Hermione's mind reeled- _Draco warned them off that strongly? But_..._ why, if he never really cared?_

Her thoughts were ripped forcibly away from Draco, though, as the elder Crabbe, adopting the tone of a patient adult putting an important concept across to a not-overly-bright child, said to his son, "let's think this through for a moment, Vince, shall we? Draco's married now, for one thing… and for another, this- mudblood, did you say? This mudblood is wearing the insignia of the enemy- something I doubt she'd be doing if she were really Draco's… property, as you seem to think her. And then there's this-" Hermione found her left hand being forced upward for inspection, the diamond engagement ring flashing in the dim light- "apparently _someone_ has staked a claim to the mudblood, but we know it can't be Draco, who has a far superior pureblooded bride. So tell me, son, do you know this girl's engaged to?"

It was Goyle who piped up then; "oh yeah, she's with Potter now."

Hermione felt the hands gripping her suddenly clench with such force that she bit her lip and grunted in pain.

"You're telling me," came the voice of the man who held her immobile, speaking slowly, incredulously but with a dawning of glee such as, perhaps, a child who's just been told that Christmas will come three times this year, "that I am holding _Harry Potter's_ mudblood fiancée right now?" At the nods of both boys, he continued, in a low and suggestive voice that sent chills up Hermione's spine and set her struggling all over again, useless though it seemed to do so, "this is going to be more fun that I even imagined."

"No!" she shouted frantically then, bucking desperately against her captor, having a pretty good idea where all this was going, "no, no _no_, get _off_ of me!"

The two older men merely laughed. "She's a spirited one," the elder Goyle chuckled. "We'll have to break her in good before we let the boys have a go. You up for it, mate?"

"Always. Turn her around. I _saw_ her first; I get to _taste_ her first."

She was yanked back around to fully face Crabbe-the-elder once again, her breath becoming short with pain at this rough treatment, as well as fear and impending hysteria. "No!" she shouted again, hoarsely, as he grinned at her, moving in for the 'kill'.

"No, don't you _touch_ me, you foul- disgusting- _ummnnnnnggh-_" she was cut off as the sweaty older man's mouth mashed down on her own.

He didn't try to gain access to her mouth, rightly guessing that given the opportunity she would bite him in a second and consequences be damned- but he licked sloppily at her lips, sucking the bottom one out and then biting down on it, causing her to scream out in pain and despair, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, tears escaping the corners of them to streak down her face.

"Mmm," he said a moment later, finally breaking the horrendous forced kiss, and smacking his own lips theatrically, "mudblood tastes _good_."

She was sobbing outright now, her body heaving, the world tilting, her mind beginning to shut down, refusing to do anything but repeat the same thought over and over again- _not like this not like this not like this not like this_- as, with a small sadistic laugh, her tormenter resumed his abuse, licking the tears from her cheeks, then dropping his head to latch onto her throat, sucking, biting, bruising… and his hands- his hands were _everywhere_, grabbing, pawing, pinching, squeezing, going to the fastenings of her clothing-

_Oh God, please not like this- anything but this- someone help me- please- God- NO!_

And that was when she heard it; pounding footsteps approaching at a dead run and then a voice- a voice she _knew_, though it was made barely recognizable by the utter white-hot fury she could hear behind it.

"Get the fuck _off_ of her, you FILTHY FUCKING _ANIMAL!_"

Her eyes snapped open, a nearly impossible surge of hope suddenly surfacing as she screamed-

"_Draco!_"


	14. Chapter 14: Love is a Battlefield

It was just that unfortunate that in his outrage, Draco's perspective had narrowed down to a sort of tunnel-vision; all he saw, as he approached the scene at a dead run, were the two older men holding Hermione- HIS Hermione- pinned between them while one of them- Crabbe senior, it looked like- lavished abuse on her with his mouth on her throat and his hands going to the laces of her trousers, starting to yank on them, his intent perfectly clear.

In his haste to reach them, in his all-consuming fury and desire to rip and tear with his bare hands, it was as if he had blinders on- he never even noticed the younger Crabbe and Goyle closing in on him from the sides until Greg full-on tackled him, the two boys sprawling to the frost-hardened ground, Draco with a surprised grunt- then beginning to roll over and over each other, vying for the upper hand.

Gregory Goyle was nearly twice the size of Draco and should have come out a clear winner, but he was caught off guard by the ferocity with which Draco fought. Though far smaller than his opponent, Draco's rage had turned him into a combatant ten times fiercer than any Goyle had yet faced in battle that day.

Finally, with a well-aimed kick to the nether-regions, Draco managed to free himself from the now howling Goyle. He'd lost his wand in the struggle, and as he scrambled to his feet, his focus temporarily bent only on retrieving it, the younger Crabbe took advantage of this distraction and seized Draco from behind, wrapping his arms around his former friend and dorm-mate, pinning Draco's arms to his sides, then applying an enormous pressure intended to crush the resistance out of the white-haired boy.

In the mean time, a whole different drama was playing out, as Gregory Goyle rolled about on the ground moaning. Hermione, taking advantage of her captors' surprise at Draco's approach, had managed to kick the elder Goyle in the shin, wrench her arms free, and even close a fist around her wand, yanking it nearly all the way out of her pocket before Crabbe senior had managed to grab her painfully by the wrists again, causing her to scream out in frustration, "NO! Draco- _please!_"

Draco, panting, fought like a madman, but it was no use; Crabbe's grip was like iron.

"Sorry, Malfoy," the larger boy whispered in his ear, "but she ain't yer mudblood anymore… and between you and dad, I gotta listen to dad. He says…"

Crabbe trailed off for a moment, as if trying to remember exactly what his father had said. Draco watched in dismay as Crabbe senior exerted a crushing force on Hermione's wrist, causing her to drop her wand with a pained little cry (it fell to the ground at her feet), then managed to get her arms pinned behind her back.

She was fighting as hard as Draco was, and he heard the fat, sweaty man who was restraining her grunt to his partner, the elder Goyle, "for God's sake, do something- _Stupefy_ the little bitch!"

Goyle, rubbing at his injured shin, grinned maliciously. "I know a better way," he said, and straightened up.

"NO!" Draco shouted, as Goyle, who towered over Hermione by at least a foot and a half, proceeded to drive a ham-sized fist into the struggling girl's stomach with incredible force. She doubled over, the wind- and the fight- knocked out of her, but Goyle didn't stop- he punched her again, and again, apparently for the sheer pleasure of it.

"Oh, yeah," said the younger Crabbe then, conversationally, still pinning Draco in a vice-like grip, "I remember now… Dad says this battle is already lost, so we may as well just take what spoils we can get. A lot of us have fled, and others have left here in order to attack Diagon Alley and St. Mungo's instead- less resistance. But Dad, he said he wants a piece of that mudblood first- and," he added excitedly, "he says when he's done I can have a go at her, too!"

The language Draco used then is best left unrepeated.

Finally, Goyle senior stepped back from Hermione, who was now hanging limply in Crabbe senior's arms. "Drop her," Goyle said shortly. "She won't give us any more trouble."

Draco watched in horror as Crabbe released her and, unable to break her fall in any way, for the double reason that Crabbe had pulled her hands behind her and that she was now no more than half conscious, her head impacted the ground with a sickening crack. His blood ran cold as he saw that the side of her head had struck the edge of a rock, halfway concealed by the light dusting of snow on the ground.

As Goyle kicked her over onto her back, Crabbe looked over at Draco and dropped him a lewd wink. "Dunno what'yer so upset about, Malfoy," he called jovially; "we'll let you have a turn, no worries… elders first, though, you know… then you and the boys can share her any way you want."

Crabbe junior sniggered in his ear.

Draco remembered back to that night in his bedroom at Hogwarts, the night that had followed their idyllic day in Hogsmeade, celebrating the end of the dreaded N.E.W.T.s, the night on which he'd convinced her to celebrate in the most intimate way possible… how she had looked like an angel against the slippery green and silver of his sheets… how her innocence, her purity, had practically radiated off of her in waves… how she had trusted him then, been ready and willing to give herself over to him… but how she'd cried out, her head whipping back and forth against his chest when he'd pushed no more than two fingers into her… her hot tears of pain flooding against his bare skin, causing him to stop, to go no further, despite the fact that he'd been nearly mad with wanting her.

And now these… these fucking animals were going to take turns on her and he was helpless… utterly helpless to put a stop to this monstrosity, to save the girl he loved.

_I would rather die,_ she had told him a year ago tonight, in the corridor outside the potions classroom, and now he was going to be forced to watch her endure a fate worse than death and goddamn it, there had to be _something_ he could do, there _had_ to….

His desperate eyes suddenly lit on her wand, lying on the snowy ground, not two feet away from her. The elder Crabbe and Goyle seemed to have forgotten all about it, and even about her, for the time being… they had actually moved several feet away from her and, Draco realized, had gone and gotten themselves into a right little shoving match over who would get to go at her first… and all she would have to do would be to reach out and take hold of it- it was so _close_-

And, he saw, her eyes were even open, and gazing in the direction of the wand- but they were glazed, unfocused from the head injury she had sustained when she'd hit the ground. If only she would focus and see it, see it and reach for it- he remembered what she had told him once in the library; he could control the wand while she held it if he saw fit to do so- all she had to do now was grab it and he could do the rest.

But he couldn't shout to her without alerting the two paunchy old men who were fighting over which would get to rape her first- the very thought made him sick with loathing- so he willed instead; willed with all his might, all his heart, all his soul.

_Your wand, Granger- Hermione- sweetheart, love- your wand, its right there, see it, reach for it, reach for it, PLEASE! See it- Hermione- see it, its so close- reach out your hand_… _reach out your hand_… _reach out your hand_…

And she did.

She blinked, and a measure of focus reappeared in her eyes; she frowned, a tiny, perplexed furrow appearing on her forehead as she stared at the wand for an impossibly long moment, as if unable to actually comprehend that it was lying there, so close, so easily within grasp, and Draco wanted to scream at her to _fucking grab it already_, but he couldn't- he couldn't make a sound, he couldn't so much as move for fear of distracting the arguing men and their sons, who were watching the conflict intently, knowing that the order their fathers decided on would determine the order of their turns as well.

And then she reached out, slowly, as if she were moving through a dream, and it was a good thing, after all, that she moved gradually, because she didn't attract any attention to herself in the process… and then the wand was in her hand and Draco knew, suddenly and completely, what he had to do.

"Granger," he shouted then, finally, not caring any longer who heard, because the balance of power had just shifted back into his favor; "Your wand- hold onto it! Do you hear me? I'll do the rest, just hold onto it and DON'T- LET- GO!"

He narrowed his eyes for a split second, focusing all of his magic, his energy, his will in a flash. As he did so, Hermione's eyes, wide, shocked windows of pain, fear and confusion, locked on his and he saw her hand tighten around the wand even as Crabbe and Goyle senior, who had turned toward Draco when he'd shouted, spun back toward her, advancing on her menacingly.

Hermione, Draco realized, was too dazed from her fall to even sit up- but that was all right. She didn't need to sit up on her own; all she needed to do was hold onto the goddamn wand, and that brief look they'd shared had told him that she understood the importance of doing so. Not the reason, perhaps, but the importance of it. Really, that was all that mattered.

She'd hold on.

And so, it was time to act.

Draco slammed his eyes shut for a split second, and when he opened them again it was to one of the strangest sensations he had ever experienced.

It was a double perspective; he was still aware of being _Draco_; aware of his own body, which had gone suddenly very still in Crabbe's grasp… preternaturally aware, in fact, of his heartbeat, his breathing, a bead of perspiration trickling slowly down one temple- but at the same time, he was no longer seeing through his own eyes.

He was seeing through Hermione's- his new perspective allowing him to aim her wand unerringly.

And he was almost out of time.

Goyle senior was towering over Hermione now; he drew back his foot and kicked her hard in the ribs, intending to incapacitate her by causing her to double up again- but what he hadn't counted on was that even though her body crumpled in on itself exactly as he had intended it to, her wand arm nevertheless swung around toward him… almost as if the wand was controlling the girl instead of the other way around.

And with lightning speed and precision the wand was trained on his chest and he barely even had time to be surprised before Draco's voice, contorted by rage, shouted "_Avada Kedavra!_" from behind him… and the mudblood's wand- _in the mudblood's hand_- responded.

A jet of green light burst from the wand's tip, and the elder Goyle was no more.

Crabbe senior, who had been right behind him, only had time to get out a puzzled, "what the fu-" before he shared Goyle's fate.

Hermione's eyes were squeezed tightly shut now, as if she couldn't bear to look at the mayhem and death her wand was unleashing, but that didn't stop it- Draco, somehow, could still see from her perspective, and he was still firmly in control, and in the next instant, the wand swung around to fix on the younger Goyle, who stood off to one side- he'd finally managed to drag himself to his feet again- watching in dimwitted amazement.

At this point, however, Draco found himself unable to quite bring himself to murder his former dorm-mate, and so shouted "_Stupefy!_" instead, felling him like a stone.

This left, in the immediate vicinity, only Hermione, still on the ground, still holding onto her wand for dear life- holding it so tightly that the knuckles of her right hand had gone ghost-white- and with her left arm now flung protectively over her face, as if to further shield her eyes from the acts of violence Draco was committing through her; and Draco, still locked within Crabbe's vice-like grip; and Crabbe, who now tightened his arms still further about Draco, making it increasingly difficult for the blond boy- his former compatriot- to draw breath.

And now Hermione's wand swung around and pointed directly at Crabbe's head, which towered over Draco's.

"Let me go," Draco said in a voice of dead calm, though his breathing was shallow now, labored; constricted by the larger boy's hold on him. "You saw that I didn't kill Greg; I won't kill you either. You have my word on that. Just let me go and walk away, Vince."

Crabbe stayed silent and still for a long time, as if mulling this over. Finally, he spoke slowly- even thoughtfully; "can't do that, Draco. You killed my dad just now." He didn't sound unduly upset by this; he spoke with the calm assurance of someone who was simply stating the facts. Nevertheless, he continued in the same, implacable tone, "that means I have to kill you in turn… that's just the way these things work."

What happened next, happened very, very fast.

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Crabbe took one arm away from Draco, though he clamped down even harder with the other; Draco realized that the other boy was going for something- either his wand or some sort of Muggle weapon- most of the Death Eaters had carried swords or daggers into the battle in addition to their wands, as backup, just in case. Whatever it was that Crabbe was reaching for, Draco did not intend to let him get a hold of it.

"_Stupefy!_" he shouted again, and red light exploded from the tip of Hermione's wand- but Crabbe, moving with astonishing speed for his size, jerked to the side, taking Draco with him; the spell hit Draco squarely in the chest, rendering him instantly unconscious.

Crabbe, who had already begun to fall, was unable to stop the process, and so he and Draco crashed to the ground together. A second later, however, he was scrambling to his knees, his wand now in his hand and trained on Draco's still form. He drew in breath to cast the killing curse, when-

"_Impedimenta!_" shouted Hermione, who had also dragged herself up into a kneeling position. Crabbe dodged again, throwing himself flat beside Draco so that the spell whizzed over his head. He then rolled back onto his knees, snarling, his wand now fixed on Hermione.

"You stupid mudblood bitch," he growled, "this is your entire bloody fault! _You've_ turned Draco against us, you filthy little whore!"

Hermione, seeing that Draco had, for the moment, escaped Crabbe's notice, acted swiftly and with no thought for herself; she flicked her wand a degree to the right, so that it was no longer pointed at Crabbe, but at the silver-haired boy sprawled unconscious on the ground- she couldn't leave him in that helpless state, no matter what the cost to herself…

Because, damn it all, she still loved him- she'd never stopped, and she never would.

She shouted "_Ennervate!_" at exactly the same moment that Crabbe, realizing he now had a clear shot at her without fear of retribution while her wand was otherwise engaged, cried "_Serpensortia!_"

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Draco opened his eyes to a vision of horror that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Realizing that he was no longer restrained and that Crabbe's attention was focused elsewhere- on Hermione, to be exact- he frantically summoned his wand just as a huge and deadly snake burst from the tip of Crabbe's- flew through the air, hissing and spitting, and landed squarely on top of Hermione, knocking her backward from her knees to the ground, rearing back its head, and-

"NO!" Draco shouted hoarsely, and, acting quickly and decisively, did the best thing he could possibly do under the circumstances; he trained the wand on Crabbe and bellowed "_Avada Kedavra!_"

Crabbe crumpled instantly, and the snake, a creation of Crabbe's magic, which had suddenly, completely and permanently been extinguished, vanished-

But it was already too late. The damage had been done.

Hermione had thrown her arms up to protect herself as she'd been slammed backward onto the hard and snow-dusted earth, and the snake had struck, with vicious speed, twice- two bites on her left forearm. And the most powerful aspect of a correctly cast Serpensortia spell (and how ironic that the final spell of Vincent Crabbe, a barely competent wizard for most of his life, should have been perfectly executed) was that even after the snake itself vanished, its venom, once released into a victim's bloodstream, would remain to do its deadly work.

"_Hermione!_ HERMIONE!"

No more pretense now- no more use of her surname, as a means of attempting to deny, to her and to himself, the depth of his feelings. Not anymore, not now, when he stood to lose her- and not just through his marriage or even her own, the possibility of which had seemed bad enough at the time- but to lose her completely and permanently and irrevocably, through an agonizing, poison-induced death.

"Hermione!" His voice was little more than a choked sob as, scrambling over the cold and hard-packed earth, he reached her. She had dropped her wand and twisted onto her side, rolling into a fetal position with her right hand clamped tightly over the wounds on her left arm.

"Draco… hurts…" she gasped, as he pried her hand away from the two ugly bites, pulling her arm straight and pushing her sleeve up so that he could get a better look.

"Bloody, bloody hell," he swore vehemently under his breath, and did two things in rapid succession. First, he yanked his shirt off over his head with no regard for the fact that he was kneeling in snow, ripped two wide strips of fabric off the bottom of it, and tied them with brutal tightness, tourniquet style, one around her left arm just above her elbow, and the other below the bites, above her wrist- then, he grabbed his own concealed dagger out of his boot.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he murmured to her, his eyes flicking to her face, which had broken into a cold, clammy sweat, and then back to her arm, "but it's about to hurt more for a minute. I have to do this- there's no choice-" and so saying, he sliced at her skin, making a pair of neat, X-shaped incisions, one over each bite.

And he began to suck.

Suck and spit, suck and spit- first one bite wound, then the other. He did this for long moments, until his mouth was full of the coppery, metallic taste of her blood- and what would his father have said if he could have seen him now? Muddy blood, he would have said; inferior, tainted, filthy.

But Draco found he didn't care what his father would have thought or said; he cared for one thing only- that this amazing woman did _not die_.

She was whimpering continuously, making tiny, mewling sounds of pain and distress when, Draco thought, any other woman would likely have been screaming her head off. Finally, when he thought he had done all he could insofar as poison removal went, he sat back on his heels, untied the two makeshift tourniquets and wrapped both strips of cloth, much more gently this time, over the wounds. He then grabbed a handful of dirtyish snow from the ground and scrubbed it across his mouth, wiping away the blood that had been smeared there, and bent close over her.

"Hermione," he murmured, catching her face in his hands and willing her to focus; to look at him. She had been gazing straight up at the night sky- for night had truly fallen now- a faraway look in her eyes and tears steadily leaking from them, to streak down the sides of her face and vanish into the tangle of her dark hair- her braid was halfway undone now, he saw; the wild hair, released from its bonds, fanning out about her on the ground.

"There are so few stars tonight," she whispered, still staring past him, straight up. "They're hiding… they don't want to see… all this misery… all this death…." She closed her eyes then, two final tears squeezing past her lids, a furrow appearing in the middle of her forehead- that furrow was familiar; Draco had seen it there countless times as she had studied, concentrating on her work… but it was not a product of concentration, this time, he knew, but of pain.

"Hey," said, his voice soft but urgent, "hey, Hermione- hey, babe. Come on, look at me. I need you to look at me."

No response.

"_Hey_," he tried again, "not all the stars are hiding, Hermione. Some are still there. And do you know what they see? They do see misery; they do see death. But they also see hope- and love. I love you, Hermione. I love you so damn much it hurts. I love you, and I'm not gonna fight it anymore." And he lowered his lips to hers, which were dry and slightly parted- just like their first kiss, he thought- but how different were the circumstances tonight. How very much had changed in a year.

It was just a quick kiss; tender and chaste- but it served its purpose of capturing her attention and compelling her to open her eyes and look at him directly. When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly steady.

"Where's your wife?" she asked pointedly.

Draco swallowed thickly. "She's… gone. But the thing about Pansy is, she was never really there. Never really real to me at all. You are the one who was real. You are the one that I loved. And I still do."

She stared at him silently for a long time, then turned her head to the side, looking away. Draco saw her eyes start to come unfocused again; saw the far-away look start to return.

"HEY!" he said sharply, gripping her shoulders and giving her a little shake, "don't _do_ that. Look, I don't care if you're angry with me- you have every right to be. I was a goddamned fool. There will be time to sort through all that later. Right now, what I need you to do is tell me everything that hurts. I'm medic trained, remember? Be angry if you like, but let me help you, Hermione."

"Hurts everywhere," she said quietly, still not looking at him. "My arm…" she flexed the fingers of her left hand and winced- "my stomach, my ribs, my… head… ow, my head." She raised her right hand to her right temple, where she had hit the rock when she'd fallen. Draco's heart skipped a beat when she brought her hand away and he saw the red on her fingers. She held them in front of her face, examining the blood with a dazed, detached sort of interest.

"Shit, Hermione!"

He grasped her chin and turned her head back toward him, then bent to examine the head wound he'd forgotten until just then.

He realized how he had missed the blood; it had seeped into her thick, dark hair, which was soaked with it. If it had been daylight, he would still have seen it easily, but by starlight- her blood drenched hair was just a shade darker than normal. He traced the wound with his fingertips, and she sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.

"Listen to me," Draco said, in a voice of forced calm, as he began passing his wand tip lightly over the side of her head- it started to glow with a faint golden light. "I know you're in pain. You're probably tired too. It may get very tempting to drift off to sleep. You _can't do that_. You're smart enough to understand why. I need you to stay awake, Hermione. Promise me- promise you'll stay awake, and that if you feel like you just _can't_ stay awake any longer, you'll tell me. I know you're independent and you're goddamn stubborn- but if you need help, you _must_ ask for it. Please." And then, more quietly, "don't make me lose you. I couldn't stand it. Hermione. Are you fucking hearing me?"

"Yeah," she whispered, her dark eyes finally fixed on his. "I hear you, Draco."

"Good," he said grimly. And poured all his concentration into healing her many injuries as best he could.

_Please, _he prayed silently as he worked, _please, Granger, you've showed me time and again just how bloody stubborn you can be- be stubborn NOW, now when it really counts. Stay awake, don't give in, please, please, please_….

_Please_....

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(A/N: I DO read all my reviews! I DO cherish and value every single one of them, from the simple two-word acknowledgements to the lengthy feedbacks and critiques! I DO love honest feedback, even if it's not all positive! Well-thought-out critiques prove that people are really reading and paying attention and that is enough of a compliment, even if they go on to disagree with something I've done to the plot or the characters. I DO check my email obsessively, several time a day, for reviews, and I DO smile every single time I see Review Alert! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to anyone who's reviewed ANY of my stories, and to those who haven't yet and think that a review would be wasted on me because I probably don't even read them anymore, please think again! The reason I don't say more about reviews in my A/Ns, for those who wonder, is that I _know_ I get a lot of them and I know how lucky I am. I dislike authors who whine and plead and blackmail for reviews, and I dislike them even more if they behave that way when they're already getting tons! I don't want to come across like that, so I tend to downplay my reviews, but that doesn't mean they don't matter to me, because they absolutely do. I LOVE REVIEWS!

:o)

Phew... that was a mouthful! In case you hadn't guessed, I've had a couple of reviews lately asking if I even care. So um… I CARE!)


	15. Chapter 15: Last Resort

He had healed her head wound, and her aching ribs, and was bending low over her stomach, her pants unlaced, exposing her lower abdomen and the ugly bruising here, caused by Goyle, Sr.'s punches- passing his wand back and forth and watching them slowly fade, when she next spoke.

"Draco?"

Her voice was barely audible, but it cut through his concentration like a knife, bringing his head up with a jerk.

"Yeah?"

"I feel… strange…"

In the next instant he was bending close over her face, examining her color, her breathing, her eyes. "Strange how?" he asked tersely.

"I feel…" her voice was the barest of whispers now- "floaty… and… everything is… spinning… Draco, make it stop spinning… please, I… I can't-"

He grasped her head between both his hands and lowered his own until their noses were nearly touching. Her eyes- there was something wrong with her eyes. The pupils were hugely dilated, her eyes larger and darker in her pale face than he had ever seen them; they reminded him of wells of black ink.

"Ugh… Draco…" she said, her voice now sounding choked; "I think I'm… gonna be…" abruptly, she wrenched away from him and rolled onto her side, and was suddenly and violently ill, her entire body heaving convulsively as it mounted a desperate, yet futile, attempt to rid itself of something that couldn't possibly be expelled through vomit; the vestiges of snake venom that Draco had missed.

He had missed very little, which was why it had taken this long for it to manifest. But though there was only a minute amount of poison left in her body, a minute amount was all that was required… it had been delayed, but was now beginning, in earnest, the work of killing her.

"Oh no," Draco whispered, pulling her up into a kneeling position, supporting her, holding back her unruly hair. "No, sweetheart, not now… Hermione, no. Oh God, no."

When she reached the point where she could heave no more, she collapsed backward against him, lying slumped against his chest. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, gathering her closer still- she was shaking, he realized- and rested his chin on top of her head.

This was torture. He felt as though his heart were being twisted around and around inside his body. He had done everything he could with the limited resources available, and he dared not take her to St. Mungo's, because of the continued rumors of intense fighting there; he wasn't going to carry her into a potential death trap in an attempt to save her life.

That left him with little to do but hold her as her tenuous grip on life slipped slowly yet inexorably away.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," he murmured into her hair.

"Me too…" she whispered, "m'sorry, Draco… I should have said yes to you that day… should have… taken you up on as much of yourself as you were free to offer… it would have been better than all this… wasted time."

"No," Draco said decisively, "absolutely not. Don't you ever say that, do you hear me? Don't even think it. You did the right thing. I acted abominably that day. I should have been flogged for making you a proposition like that. I was stupid and selfish and thought I could have it both ways; duty and love. Have my… what is it that Muggles say? Have my… pie, and…"

"Have your cake and eat it too," Hermione said, with a hint of a smile in her voice, despite everything.

In response, Draco kissed the top of her head and tightened his arms still further about her. "I should have asked you to marry me. To hell with duty. What I wouldn't give for a time turner to make things right."

00000

Hermione turned her head in order to nestle her face against his chest. How she had wanted this… never even admitting to herself in all the time since that awful last day at school that she did, in fact, want him back- that would be weakness, and she was not weak. But regardless of whether she had consciously admitted it or not, she now conceded to herself, didn't make it any less true. She had yearned for his arms around her again.

And now that she had him back, she was just lying here waiting to die, and goddamn it, it wasn't fair, she wasn't ready, it wasn't _fair_!

She could feel her body giving up the fight against the poison- could feel the strangeness getting stronger all the time- not pain, exactly, not anymore; she'd moved beyond mere pain. Just… a strong sense that something was deeply and fatally not right.

"I wish I could have married you," she murmured, as the stars above her seemed to wink out one by one and blackness began to enfold her. "Not a day has gone by that I haven't looked at that ring and wished… that it had been an engagement ring… God, I wished so often and so hard… it's so beautiful… I've ached to wear it…" she trailed off.

"You ached to wear it," Draco echoed, his voice bitter, "but you never did, did you? Goddamn your stubborn pride, Hermione-" and now he sounded as if he were choking on tears- "if you had only worn it today, _just _today… it could have protected you, that's what it was _made_ for… and it's all my bloody fault you never put it on, and… aw, damn it to hell!"

"I can't see the sky anymore," she whispered, causing his arms to tighten convulsively about her. Then- "Draco, help me. I want… I… want…"

"What do you want, sweetheart?" he practically sobbed.

"I wanna wear it… at last… help me…put it on… I can't…move my arms so good… can't get it… out…"

Draco's body jerked so suddenly and so hard it was as if an electric shock had gone through him. "Get it out of where?" he asked in a suddenly tight voice. "Are you saying you have it here? Hermione? HERMIONE!"

Her eyes had fallen closed and she was unresponsive. "Hermione! Oh, fuck! FUCK!"

He laid her out flat on the ground and bent over her, checking for breathing, pulse. Both were still present, though faint. Horribly, terrifyingly faint.

"You're not gonna do this to me, Hermione, you're not gonna say something like that and then just slip away, I'm not gonna let you, goddamn it, I won't LET you!" He jabbed the tip of his wand into her chest hard enough to leave a bruise. "_Ennervate!_"

She gasped as the force of the spell jolted through her body, and her eyes flew open- but they were clouded. Draco's sudden sense that she no longer seemed to understand where she was or what was going on strengthened when she spoke. A small frown creasing her brow, her voice now laced with irritation, she whispered, "Draco, quit playing, I'm tired… I've hardly slept… exams…up studying… all night long…"

"Hermione!" Taking her by the shoulders, he gave her a quick, hard shake. "Come back to me, love, come on… I know you don't want to, I wouldn't either, but I need you in the here and now, this is too- (shake)- bloody- (shake)- important!"

He watched comprehension click in her eyes as they finally- thank _God_- widened and cleared. She drew in a shuddering breath.

"Dra-mmmph…"

She was cut off as he kissed her suddenly and hard on the lips, overwhelmed by relief.

He pulled away a moment later, but kept his face just barely an inch above hers, his hands on either side of her head, holding it steady, his fingers twined in her hair, his left hand slick with the blood from her right temple- he had healed it, true, but the blood remained. "Hermione," he said urgently, "you were talking about the ring a moment ago. Do you have it with you? Where is it?"

"Neck…" she murmured, her eyes beginning inexorably to slip shut once more. "chain… 'round my neck… wore it today… next t'my… heart…"

Without further ado, Draco plunged his hand down her shirt, searching between the swell of her breasts. When he pulled it out a moment later, it was fisted around something small and golden that glimmered in the gloom.

"Oh, thank God," he whispered fervently, giving the fine gold chain a sharp tug, breaking it and freeing the ring. "Don't let it be too late, please don't let it be too late!"

He lifted her left hand, saw the engagement ring on her fourth finger, snarled, yanked it off, tossed it away, and jammed the opal ring into its place, his fear of losing her making him rough. Then he raised her hand to his mouth, holding it in both of his own, and kissed it, his lips moving against her cold fingers as he whispered, "come on, please work, please…"

Nothing happened for several long seconds.

Then, abruptly, her whole body jerked stiff, her eyes flying wide, her fingers clamping down on his with an iron grip.

"Draco!" she cried out, "it hurts! Oh God, it burns!"

"S'alright, love- that means it's doing what it was meant to do. Just hold on."

"Unnngh… no… _owww_… take it off!"

"Never," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and half-lifting her, crushing her to his chest in a fierce embrace. "Never, Hermione."

"Nnngh… Draco… my _arm_!"

Draco looked down at her left arm, sucking in a sharp breath at what he saw. The ring on her hand was glowing- a deep, pulsing, golden glow- and so too was her forearm, where the snakebites were, the golden light leaking out from beneath the bandages he had wrapped around the wounds.

"Please," and her voice was no more than a whisper now, "Draco, it hurts so much."

"Shhh," he soothed. "That just means that it's working. You're strong enough to get through this, I know you are. Just hold _on_."

She made a muffled sound against him that seemed half-groan, half-sob… and then bit down on his shoulder, hard, causing him to have to stifle a cry of his own. He made no attempt to pull away, however, just ground out through clenched teeth, "do what you have to, Granger, but hold on. Don't you leave me. Don't you dare."

They made a strange couple, there on the snow-dusted ground of the corpse-strewn battlefield, nothing moving around them- all those able to continue the fight for either side had moved on, it seemed, to the new "hot spots" of St. Mungo's and Diagon Alley. The boy, shirtless, in a puddle of ripped Death Eater robes, his hood long since tossed aside, his hair the color of the stars that shone above him- the girl in the plain black combat fatigues of the Order, her sole badge of affiliation the scarlet and gold band high on her right arm, which, upon closer inspection, bore the insignia of a phoenix. Neither of them was much more than a child. When they had walked onto the killing ground hours earlier, it had been as enemies. Now the girl was clinging to life by a thread.

And the boy's heart was breaking.

Because it was becoming apparent that the aid of the ring was too little, too late. Her fight for life was, it seemed, a losing battle.

Draco noticed that the ring's glow was fading at just about the same time that Hermione, who had been tense and trembling from the pain, started to relax in his arms, her head lolling backward, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, and, Draco noticed, in mounting panic, slightly blue. His shoulder, which had been in searing agony as she bit down on it, was now throbbing dully. He slipped a hand behind her head and eased her back down to the ground.

"Hermione," he muttered urgently, moving his other hand to cup her cheek, "don't do this, goddamn it. Wake up. Granger, _wake up_!"

Her eyes blinked open slowly, and only halfway. They were heavy-lidded, sleepy and out of focus. She swallowed, wetted her lips with her tongue. "Draco," she said, her voice hoarse, cracked, "I'm so tired. But I'm not ready… I don't wanna die."

"You're not gonna die," he half sobbed. "There's one more thing we can try. It was a last-resort enchantment I had put on the ring. It's old magic, very old, and hasn't been used successfully in at least five centuries… hasn't been documented, at least. It's risky. But it's a chance, Hermione, our last chance, so I'm willing to take that risk. But in order for it to work, we both have to participate. The words of the spell- I'll need you to repeat them after me. Can you do it? Hermione?" He shook her again. "_Can you do it?!?_"

"I'll try."

"All right… all right. Hang on." Lifting her left hand once more, he gently pulled the opal ring off, wincing as he noticed that the skin on her finger had been rubbed raw by the violence with which he'd shoved it on a moment ago. But that was the least of her injuries at the moment…

Her dark eyes watched him, puzzled, blinking often in an attempt to keep focused, as he next removed his wedding ring from his own fourth finger. Brow furrowed in concentration, he fit the two rings together, lips moving as he began to recite the words of an ancient and complex spell in a barely audible murmur, praying that this last-ditch enchantment would actually work.

If it did not, it would most likely kill him.

Not that he would mind that terribly much, because if it did not work, then Hermione would die as well… and he would have nothing to live for anyway, then. With both Hermione and Pansy dead, he would have neither love _nor_ even duty to tie him to this world. No, he would either live with Hermione… or die with her.

Something was happening.

"Draco," Hermione whispered, "what's going on?"

The two rings had clicked together, and were beginning to glow with the same golden light that Hermione's ring alone had recently dispensed into her bloodstream, in an effort to fight off the deadly snake venom. As the light intensified, the two rings, now merged into one, actually began to expand, to grow larger. Draco let go, and this new single ring hung in the air in front of him, thrumming with magical energy, and still, slowly, enlarging. A small, grim smile settled on his face. The initial phase of the enchantment, at least, was going exactly as it should.

"My wedding band," he explained quietly, as the magic continued to run its course, "I had it crafted as a mate to _your_ ring, not to Pansy's, because in my heart, you were always my wife. The first part of the spell is nearly over now. It's the second part that will require you to participate. Are you with me, Hermione?"

"M'with you."

"Right." Draco took a deep breath. "Here goes."

His hand shaking slightly, he reached out and plucked the shining object from the air. It had stopped expanding and was now a perfectly fused, single large gold ring, shot through with shimmering and ever-changing bands of opalescent color- predominantly crimson and green. It was surrounded by a bright aura of magical power and when Draco's fingers made contact with it, it seemed to actually _buzz_ beneath them.

Holding the ring carefully, he took Hermione's right hand with his left, gently spread her fingers, and then pressed his hand flat against hers, palm to palm, carefully aligning each of their fingers, pressing them tightly together. Right hand to left, their thumbs lined up; their index, middle, ring and pinky fingers, mirroring one another. Then, with his right hand, he slipped the ring slowly down over their joined fourth fingers. It had expanded, as it was meant to do, to the perfect size; just large enough to fit around their two fingers when pressed together, binding them.

There was a blaze of light, and then they were both completely encompassed in the ring's golden aura.

"Now," Draco whispered, lowering his head until his silver-white fringe brushed Hermione's forehead, the tips of the fine, near-colorless hairs turning suddenly scarlet as they met the blood-soaked hair at her temple, "this is when you must repeat after me. All right? Hermione? _All right?_"

She swallowed thickly, then blinked hard once, twice- she was clearly struggling, even in the midst of the sudden cocoon of brilliant, pulsing light, to stay conscious, aware. "Right," she whispered slowly.

"Once we start, we can't stop til we're done. Do you _understand that?_"

"Un'stnd."

Draco's heart lurched in his chest. He was becoming increasingly, terrifyingly sure that she wasn't going to make it through this.

Well he'd live with her or die with her. Right?

_Right._

Taking two more deep, steadying breaths, he lowered his head just a fraction more, tilting it slightly to the side to avoid bumping noses, until their lips just barely touched. They would stay like this, speaking the words of the spell directly into one another's mouths, their lips brushing as they spoke, until the enchantment was complete… or until Hermione failed to repeat after him, and things would go terribly wrong. Either way, it was time to begin.

He couldn't resist giving her one more tender, chaste kiss, then he spoke, his voice a hoarse whisper.

The words were stunningly simple.

"One breath," he said, as their breath intermingled there on the snowy, corpse-strewn ground. "Say it, Hermione, _one breath_."

"One breath," she whispered in reply.

"One heart," Draco murmured.

"One… heart…" Hermione was fading fast.

Draco took his free hand and cupped her face.

"One love."

"One… one…"

"One love. Hermione, say it."

"One love," she breathed.

"One life," Draco pressed.

Hermione's eyes fluttered; her body jerked weakly beneath him, her breath hitched.

She was leaving him.

"Hermione! One life!" He tapped the side of her face- softly at first, then almost hard enough to be a slap. "_Say it!_"

"One… ngh!" (she convulsed again)… "l-life…"

"Okay. This is it. One blood. Hermione, _one blood_."

"One… one b…b…"

"Hermione." He kissed her lips again. "I love you. Don't leave me. Please don't. Say it. One blood. Say it, please."

"One… one… _Aagh!_" Her body arched up off the cold, hard ground, pressing into him as leaned close over her. Her eyes, which had been growing steadily heavier throughout the incantation, flew wide. The light in them, the _life_- was nearly gone.

"_One blood!_" Draco shouted. "Hermione damn you, don't do this! One blood, say it! Say it, say it SAY-"

"_ONE BLOOD!_" she cried suddenly, the words sounding as if they'd been wrenched from her throat. It was her last rally. She was through.

But it was enough. The incantation was complete.

She collapsed back to the ground, all the tension leaving her body in an instant, and at the same time there was an explosion of energy around them. The rings reverted to their original forms, releasing their hands, and Draco, who'd been leaning over Hermione all this time, practically on top of her, was flung to the side, where he landed next to her on his back, spread-eagled on the ground.

Pain shot through every inch of his body; he gritted his teeth against it, willing himself not to cry out. With the completion of the life binding spell, he had given Hermione half of his life force, and taken on half of her pain. Pain which had been so severe that _her_ mind had long since begun to react by moving beyond it, to a place where it could no longer touch her… but to Draco it was fresh, he'd had no opportunity to erect any such defenses against it; he was caught in a tide of pain that felt like nothing he'd ever experienced before.

_Merlin, this is only HALF of what she was feeling?_ he thought, as he lay gasping up at the star-studded sky. His mind flew back to that night a year ago when he'd found her in the corridor outside the potions classroom. Hadn't one of the very first things he'd ever said to her following that life-changing event concerned her strength in the face of pain? Yeah… the morning after, when he'd been half-delirious already, sick from spending the night on the cold stone floor in a draft- _It's really kind of too bad you are a mudblood. Though I'll never tell you as much again, you are smart, and you proved last night that you're tough as well. I never would have guessed how badly hurt you were from the way you were acting. You would have been an asset to our side, Granger._

God, what a fool he'd been. He had started to love her right then, he saw in retrospect, right then when he'd seen first-hand just how strong and brave she could be. That was why he'd carried her through the classroom door instead of simply levitating her; why he'd placed her in the least drafty corner of the room, dooming himself to get sick. Yet even after all that, he'd remained so sure, so bloody sure that he was honor-bound to choose duty over love, and look where it had gotten him- look where it had gotten _her_.

He had chosen poorly.

And now everything she was going through was his fault.

Well, he'd spend the rest of his life making it up to her- assuming that either he, or she, had a rest of a life to _spend_.

He rolled onto his side and then pushed himself up onto his knees, unable to suppress a low groan as he did so. He crawled the short distance to where Hermione lay, horribly, terrifyingly still.

"Please be breathing," he whispered, "please be breathing, please, Granger, please…"

Bending close over her, he pushed dark, blood encrusted curls out of her face and dipped his head, turning his face to the side as he did, so that his cheek hovered bare millimeters from her lips. He waited for a moment like that, not daring to breathe himself, until he registered the regular, if tiny, puffs of warm air hitting his skin.

She was breathing- though barely.

"Thank God," he choked out, as relief surged through him, and it was all he could do to keep himself from collapsing on top of her. He just wanted to curl into her warmth and sleep…

But _no_. That was hypothermia beckoning him- he was still shirtless in the snow. If he slept now he would never wake, and if he died, so would she. His brave little Gryffindor was completely helpless now; he was her only chance for salvation. He had to stay focused, damn it.

It was difficult, though- at least, until he heard the voices. The voices, still far off but drawing nearer, had the effect of a bucket of ice water thrown over him; they brought things back into sharp focus _real_ fast- because voices- _anyone's_ voices- were bad, bad news right now.

If it was Death Eaters, they would kill Hermione- which would be the same as killing him. If it was Order members, they would either kill or imprison him- the former would equal killing Hermione; the latter would equal killing them both. Because if they lived through this night, both of their lives would be irrevocably altered by the binding spell he had just performed. They now shared a single life force; if one of them should die, the other would follow within an hour. If they were to be separated by more than about two hundred meters, they would _both_ be dead within an hour. This was how their lives were to be now. This was permanent.

So voices were _not a good thing_, no matter whose they were.

His head whipped toward the sound, and he saw a group of shadowy figures, moving across the desolate battlefield, moving in his direction. He watched as one of them hunched down, apparently over a person lying prone on the ground. In the next instant, there was a flash of green light, followed by rough guffaws of laughter. That answered the question of who they were, then; definitely Death Eaters, who were searching through the bodies on the ground, using the killing curse on wounded Order members, and probably looting them for good measure.

He had to get Hermione out of here. NOW.

"Wands," he muttered, "shit, where are our _wands?_"

He'd lost track of both of them; now, when a quick glance around revealed nothing of their whereabouts, he extended a hand and said "_Accio wand_." Both his wand and Hermione's responded immediately- it was another effect of the bonding curse. Both wands would respond equally to each of them now.

"All right. Portkey, need portkey…" but where to go? He couldn't think of anyplace safe, not after what he'd heard about St. Mungo's and Diagon Alley. He didn't trust Hogwarts either right now; it had been the Death Eaters' main objective, and while he didn't know whether it had been breached or not, he wasn't willing to take that chance. Besides, even if it remained an Order stronghold, there was still the problem of his almost certain arrest- and subsequent separation from Hermione- should the Order of the Phoenix get a hold of him. Safety, where could he find safety? He was having a hard time thinking clearly; he was freezing, and still in intense pain. As his mind wrestled with the fog that wanted to slow his thought process, cloud his judgment- _cost him and Hermione their lives_, his hands were searching the ground around him, completely independent of conscious thought, for an object suitable for transformation into a portkey.

His right hand closed over just such an object- Hermione's diamond engagement ring. He scooped it up, along with a handful of filthy gray snow and gravelly dirt, from where it had been lying on the ground, thankful for its presence for the very first time. He no longer needed to resent it, after all, now that it was no longer on her finger- and it would suit his purposes perfectly. _But where to go?_

His revelation came at almost the exact instant he heard his name called. _THE COTTAGE!_ he thought, as though a light had been switched on in his head- of course. With all the wards and protective spells he'd had put on it, it was the safest place on earth for Hermione- for both of them. And once there, he could send Pinky for help from the one person he trusted to actually listen to him before acting.

But right on the heels of this thought, he heard it- the approaching voices were talking amongst themselves, and now they were close enough that he could make out what they were saying.

"-over there, yeah, that hair- see? Looks like Malfoy!"

"Malfoy? I thought fer sure he was dead. _Malfoy!_ Hey, Malfoy, s'at you?"

"Aw, fuck _me_," Draco muttered, and began hurriedly reciting the spell that would transform the diamond ring into a portkey to the cottage in Hogsmeade.

The Death Eaters- his former comrades- were nearly upon them by the time Draco finished the incantation. He yanked Hermione's unresisting body into his arms, slipped the ring back onto her hand- but her _right_ hand, this time- and said "_activate!_" just as Blaise Zabini, Marcus Flint, and several others- he didn't catch their faces, as he and Hermione were already being whirled away- came to a skidding halt in front of-

Well, in front of where he had been a moment ago, for he was no longer there now.


	16. Chapter 16: At The Cottage

They thudded down in the deep, soft snow of the cottage's front yard (due to the protections on the house no one, not even its owners, could come any closer to it via apparition or portkey), Draco's heart pounding from the close call they'd just experienced. He struggled to his knees… then, somehow, to his feet, Hermione clasped tightly in his arms. Carrying her should have been easy for him- would have been, under normal circumstances, but as weak and hurt and exhausted as he was, it was a miracle he made it across the yard, trudging through the blanket of almost knee-deep snow, onto the path and, stumblingly, up the front steps to the door. He fell against it, turning himself as he did so in order to protect Hermione; his shoulder hit the wood with a muffled thump.

"Pinky!" he shouted hoarsely, desperate, unable to knock with his arms full of the unconscious love of his life, still shirtless in the snow, teeth now chattering violently, the world beginning to tilt and blacken at the edges as his legs slowly buckled- "Pinky, for God's sake, open the door!"

He heard rushed, pattering little footsteps approaching from within the house, then the door opened inward and he fell through it, landing jarringly on his side in the tiny foyer, cradling Hermione, protecting her from the impact.

"Ngh!" he grunted through clenched teeth, fighting for consciousness. The message he was getting from his body was that he was finally in a safe place, safe and warm, and it was all right now, it was okay to drift away into the darkness that was creeping toward him from the corners of the room. The darkness would hold relief from this throbbing, gnawing, aching, stinging pain that had invaded every inch of him. _Just let go_, his body whispered, _just let go_.

But he couldn't, not yet. There was more to be done. With a supreme effort, using the wall as support, he dragged himself back to his feet, still holding onto Hermione, and staggered into the parlor, depositing her on the sofa in front of the fire. "Pinky," he said to the elf, who was standing off to one side with both hands clasped over her mouth in shock and horror, wearing a frilly, too-long pink nightgown that puddled about her on the floor, "Hermione's not well. Get a blanket, immediately."

As Pinky flew up the stairs, he sank down on the edge of the sofa, slipped a cushion under Hermione's head, fumbled for a wand- which one didn't matter anymore- pressed the tip gently to her chest, and murmured, "_Ennervate_."

Hermione's eyes fluttered open slowly, reluctantly.

"Draco?" she whispered, her voice tiny and cracked.

"Yeah, love," he answered, forcing a small smile. "It's me."

She blinked, and her eyes left his face to wander the room. "Where are we?"

"Home," Draco answered simply, dropping a kiss on her forehead. "We're home."

"Mmh. Is it over then? The battle?"

"I don't know. But I think the fighting's just moved elsewhere. It's over for us, though. We're safe here."

Hermione's brows drew together, troubled. "But Harry… Ron…" But she didn't get to finish this thought. Her eyes were drifting closed in spite of herself and in the next instant she was gone again. Then Pinky was back, holding a folded blanket out to Draco, who took it, shook it out, and tucked it about Hermione's still form. "Hold tight, sweetheart," he muttered, "help's on the way."

He tried to stand- but his body had reached the point where it simply would not obey him any longer. He stumbled backward and fell hard into a sitting position on the coffee table, then wrapped both arms around his midsection and doubled over, groaning.

Damn it all. Damn his weak, uncooperative body straight to-

"Mister Draco?"

He raised his head marginally, surveying Pinky through white-blond bangs that fell forward, still scarlet-tipped with Hermione's blood. He blinked, narrowed his eyes, trying to keep the elf in focus. She was wearing a pink nightcap with a pom-pom at the tip, he noticed detachedly. Everything seemed very surreal to him all of a sudden- he felt like he was floating six inches above his body, much as he'd felt when he'd had that fever so long ago. His mind was finally doing as Hermione's had done- shutting down in order to escape the pain.

"Pinky, listen," he said- slurred, really- "this is important-"

"Mister Draco," the elf interrupted urgently, "you is not looking any better than Miss Hermione. Let Pinky help you lie down, sir!"

"No," he said stubbornly, "I'm fine. Look, there's someone I need you to find for me, right away. Severus Snape. He's a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and a professor at Hogwarts. I don't know where he is right now. But you can find him, can't you, Pinky?"

The elf nodded. "Of course I can, but Mister Draco, you should really let-"

"_No._ Just find Snape. And if he's alive, bring him here. No one but Snape. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," the elf replied, though with obvious reluctance. "I is going now, Mister Draco. I is just needing to put on my snow things, sir." With that, she turned and padded back up the stairs, reappearing a moment later wearing hot pink snowboots, and a puffy pink parka over her nightie. She carried another folded blanket over one arm; pink, apparently from her own bed.

"Damn uncooperative elf," Draco muttered as she draped the blanket over his shoulders where he still hunched, miserably, on the edge of the coffee table. "I tol'you I ws'fine." His mind registered distantly that he was now barely understandable.

"You is not telling the truth," the elf said severely, "either to Pinky or to yourself. Now stay put; Pinky will be back with help just as soon as she can." She stepped through the front door, pulled it shut behind her, and Draco heard, faintly, the snapping sound that accompanied the appearance and disappearance of house elves.

It was then that the room seemed to give a mighty lurch beneath him, and he listed to the side. He threw out an arm to steady himself, but there was nothing there to grab- he was already sitting at the very edge of the table. He fell sideways onto the floor, and groaned.

He made one last valiant effort to push himself back up, to no avail. Now sprawled on the cold wooden floor between the coffee table and the sofa, still bare-chested, half tangled in a wooly pink blanket, he found that he was shaking uncontrollably. Turning his head to the side, he saw Hermione's hand trailing over the edge of the couch, reached out, and grasped it in his own. He then spent an indeterminate time drifting in and out of consciousness, feeling, when he was aware enough to feel anything, as though the room was spinning constantly in slow, sickening circles.

He was in a gray place somewhere between consciousness and oblivion when he thought he heard, as from very far away, the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. A door opened and closed and then there was the heavy thud of booted feet hurrying across the parlor toward him.

"Draco!" The voice was deep and familiar, and full of concern. Draco felt a pair of rough, warm hands grip him by the shoulders.

"Severus," Draco breathed, blinking hard, trying to fight off the fog that surrounded him, to bring his eyes into focus. "Thank Merlin you're all right."

"I wish I could say the same for you," Snape replied. "Draco, how are you hurt? Whose house is this? And what in God's name is Miss Granger doing here with you? Your bedamned house elf wouldn't tell me anything except that you were wounded."

"Not wounded," Draco managed. "It's Hermione that's hurt. Serpensortia. Bitten twice."

"Bitten _twice?_" Snape echoed incredulously. "And she's still _alive?_ Draco, what is going on?"

Draco's eyes drifted closed. "I love her," he whispered, "God help me. I've loved her for… a long time. But I was stupid… so stupid. I didn't listen to you, I'm sorry, Severus-"

"Draco," Snape interrupted, his voice somehow managing to be both soothing and urgent at once, "forget about that now; _I_ failed _you_, not the other way around. Just tell me about Miss Granger. How could she be bitten twice by a Serpensortia and not die?"

"Life-binding spell," Draco replied, his voice now barely audible. "Channeled through our rings. I shared… half my life-force… with her…"

"Mother of Merlin," Snape said incredulously. "But that hasn't been done successfully in centuries."

"I'm not so sure it's been done successfully now either," Draco replied weakly. "Ask me in the morning… if you still can…"

His implication was clear.

And it was equally clear that Snape didn't like it, not one bit. His face hardened.

"Bugger that," he snapped, "I'm in no mood for your ridiculous theatrics, boy." But the very gruffness of his voice betrayed the depth of the worry he felt. "Draco- _Draco!_ Stay with me, damn it!" Still gripping him by the shoulders, he shook him. "I need to know everything about the spell you used. Where can I find that information, Draco?"

"Upstairs… second door… library. Book is… on th'desk."

"Is there a bedroom upstairs as well?"

"Yeah… end of the hall."

"Right." With that, Snape gathered his young protégé into his arms, stood, and made for the stairs.

"No," Draco snarled, beginning to struggle, "Hermione! Damn it, Severus, I'm fine, leave me alone, help _Hermione!_"

"I will come back for Miss Granger," Snape replied calmly.

"No- NO! Damn you, Severus-"

But Snape paid no attention; Draco was too weak to back his curses with any real resistance.

00000

They were halfway up the stairs when it hit them; the pain of ten Cruciatus Curses, concentrated in both of their left forearms- the place where they both wore the Dark Mark. Snape gave a yell and dropped Draco to clutch at his arm- the pain was too sudden and too great to be deferred, even at the cost of sending the boy he loved almost as a son tumbling ungracefully to the bottom of the stairs.

Draco actually felt the rib crack as he slammed down on the floor at the foot of the stairs, but it seemed a distant and unimportant pain in that moment; all of his attention was focused on the searing agony that was his arm. Clutching at it, fighting the urge to scream with everything he had, he heard Snape, above him on the stairs, give a hoarse shout of pain and turned his head to regard, through watering eyes, his mentor doubled over, right hand clasped over his left arm, left hand fisted in his dark hair, his often stern face a mirror image of Draco's- shock and pain. And then-

It was over, just as abruptly as it had begun.

Draco's head fell back against the floor with a _thwack_ as all the tension left his body. His teeth remained gritted, though, as he was now becoming aware of the new pain in his midsection. Christ, but it had been a lousy night.

A moment later Snape was there, looming over him, his face waxy-pale and drawn tight with both the vestiges of the pain he'd just suffered and a dawning concern.

"Merlin, Draco, I'm sorry," he said. "Can you sit up?"

"I- don't know," Draco managed, between clenched teeth and shallow, panting breaths. "What… what the… fuh-huck was that?"

"That," Snape said grimly, "was Potter winning this damn war. The Dark Lord is dead. Look at your arm."

Draco, whose right arm was now clamped protectively over his damaged ribcage, raised his left- (it took a distinct effort to do so)- into the line of his sight. The area of his forearm where the Mark had been up until a moment ago was blazing an angry red, but of the Dark Mark itself there was no sign.

"Well bugger me," he said, wonderingly.

Snape uttered a short bark of mirthless laughter. "Indeed," he said dryly. Then, "come on, Draco, let's get you up." And unaware of the extent of Draco's new fall-related injuries, he proceeded to haul him into a sitting position.

Draco expelled a strangled little "huh" sound as he felt- and this time _heard_ as well- yet another crack. His pale eyes grew huge for just a fraction of a second, before rolling back and falling shut as he slumped backward into Snape's arms. As if from a great distance, he heard the older man's panicked shouts of "Draco! _Draco! FUCK!_"

Then, finally, darkness engulfed him completely.

00000

(A/N: Sorry so many people were confused about the last chapter! As you can see, all is well... well, kinda. Better than it would be if the Death Eaters had gotten their grubby little hands on them, anyway. Also in answer to a question someone asked a couple of chapters ago, yes, sucking poison from a snakebite can really be done- but obviously, only when medical attention is not available and there is no other alternative. It is dangerous to both the sucker and the... er... suckee. And I apologize for the lateness and the shortness of this chapter, and the fact that "Sometimes" hasn't been updated at all this week... or last week... for those who haven't read my profile page, I'm in the midst of buying a house (we sign the papers today- yipee skippee) which is very time consuming and stressful. Also, I started grad school last week. I beg your patience, kind readers!)


	17. Chapter 17: One of the Good Guys

Draco woke to dull, throbbing pain in his head, arm, and ribcage, and a most unnerving sight.

Really, it was almost a pleasant awakening at first- if it hadn't been for the fact that nearly every inch of him ached- because he realized right away that he was in the silver-and-blue master bedroom of the cottage, and the quiet warmth radiating from beside him suggested that Hermione was with him in the bed- in other words, he was exactly where wanted to be, with exactly the person he wanted to be with. Any sense of well-being he felt was fleeting, however; it vanished an instant later when his eyes, idly skimming the perimeter of the walls, came to rest on a wholly unexpected and unwelcome addition to the room.

Just inside the door stood Ron Weasley, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest in a stance that screamed pure belligerence, giving Draco a glare of such intense loathing that it was faintly surprising to Draco, even in light of all the years of animosity that had existed between the two young men. Draco hadn't thought the human face- _any_ human face- capable of holding this degree of malevolence.

_And this is supposed to be one of the good guys_, he thought.

"Weasley," he croaked guardedly, trying to struggle into a sitting position, "what the hell are you doing here?"

Ron offered no explanation for his presence, instead growling, "is it true I can't kill you without also killing Hermione? Is it true you've used some sort of curse to chain her to you for the rest of her life?"

Draco grimaced and gave up trying to sit. He was still too weak and sore. Merlin, how he hated lying here while Weasley was on his feet, though. It made him feel exquisitely vulnerable. He sighed.

"I don't know that I would phrase it like that," he said finally, "but essentially, yes. For what it's worth, though, Weasley, I wouldn't have done it if there were any alternative. It was a last resort- the only way to save her life."

"And why, pray tell," Ron ground out through clenched teeth, "would Death Eater scum like you want to do a thing like that?"

Draco sucked in a deep breath- as deep as his aching ribs would allow, at any rate- and pressed his eyes briefly closed. This was it. The moment of truth.

"Because I love her," he said.

"_Bollocks!_" Ron spat furiously, and, losing his temper completely, lunged for the bed. Slamming his fists down onto the mattress on either side of Draco, he leaned close over the white-haired boy, his voice and eyes dangerous.

"You don't know what love is," he snarled. "It's _Harry_ that loves her. You know where he is now? He's half-dead from winning this bloody war- there's about a hundred fucking healers working right this minute to save his life and the joke, Malfoy, the real ha-ha funny part, is that if he even pulls through this, discovering what you've done will kill him all over again! You took her away from him for no reason other than to save your own worthless hide. You think I'm not onto you, Malfoy? You think I haven't got you one-hundred-fucking-percent figured out? Convenient, isn't it, that you'll never be able to go to Azkaban where you belong without dragging Hermione along with you? Yeah, pretty fucking convenient that you've managed to _ferret_ your way out of the prison sentence you deserve, you _filthy Death Eater bastard!_"

Normally, Draco would have been swinging by now, but under the circumstances all he could do was lie there, completely stunned by the violence of Ron's outburst. And moreover, he realized with a dull sort of horror, what Ron was saying made perfect sense- it would be a completely Slytherin thing to do, to perform a binding spell on an innocent person in order to get out of going to jail. And not just any innocent person, either, but the best friend and fiancée- (_former_ fiancée, he thought vehemently)- of Harry Bloody Potter, the hero of the entire wizarding world. It would have been genius, actually, if that had been his intent. Truth be told, however, he had never even considered the situation from this particular angle. But now that he stopped to think about it…

Fuck.

It was what just about everyone would assume. Of course it was.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

And then Snape was there, and not a moment too soon, either, because it really looked as though Ron was on the verge of throttling Draco, binding spell or no binding spell. The potions master was dragging Ron backward, shouting "get the hell _off_ him, Weasley!" and Ron was responding in a shockingly rude and hostile tone of voice, "what are you gonna do about it, _Snape?_ Deduct House points?" and no one spoke to Severus Snape that way while Draco was around, _no one_, goddamn it, and in the next instant he was launching himself at Ron, sore ribs be damned- and then the floor was rushing up at him and everything went black again.

00000

The next time Draco woke, it was to find Snape sitting in a chair drawn up to the side of the bed. The older man's posture was hunched and unhappy; his elbows on his knees and his head dropped forward into his hands, longish black hair obscuring his face. The room was dim; it appeared to be night.

Draco wetted his dry lips. "Sev-Severus?" he managed. His voice was better than the croak it had been before, but he was still hoarse.

Snape's head shot up. "Draco," he said. "How are you feeling?"

Draco frowned. "Was I having nightmares, or was Weasley in my room?"

Snape looked rueful. "I'm sorry about that. I had to contact Dumbledore for help researching the spell you used- it was quite urgent, I was afraid I'd lose the both of you- (and did I not specifically _tell_ you never to scare me like that again?)- anyway, he was adamant that Miss Granger's friends had a right to know what had happened to her and where she was. Apparently Weasley'd been searching for her, in order to take her to Potter's side once the battle was over, and he went half-mad when he couldn't find her anywhere. The Headmaster absolutely insisted that he be allowed to come here, for all that I argued he could serve no possible purpose other than to act as a distraction and a nuisance." He shook his head. "He's downstairs now. He's been pacing a hole in the living room rug for most of the afternoon and evening. Even Dumbledore has barred him from coming back up here, in light of that little scene earlier today."

"How long since the battle ended?" Draco asked then.

"Over twenty-four hours now."

"And has Hermione-" Draco broke off and glanced at her still form in the bed beside him, finding that his throat seemed to have suddenly constricted, choking off his words.

"She hasn't woken," Snape said gently.

Draco swallowed hard. "Will she?"

"I don't know, Draco," the older man replied honestly, "I just don't know. Right now she's not responding to anything, including _Ennervate_. But her condition seems stable- for what it's worth, she isn't getting any worse."

"But she's not getting any better."

"No, no she's not getting any better."

They lapsed into silence for some time- then, abruptly, surprising even himself, Draco asked, "what about Potter?"

"What about him?" Snape replied.

"Weasley said he was… hurt."

Snape snorted. "Now _there's_ an understatement. The final duel between him and Voldemort was a close thing, Draco, a _very_ close thing. The Dark Lord very nearly killed him. The healers are reasonably sure by now that he'll live, but they're by no means positive- he's not out of the woods yet. Why do you ask?"

Draco shrugged with one shoulder while absentmindedly reaching out with the other hand to smooth Hermione's hair where it lay fanned across her pillow. "He matters to Hermione," he said, "so now he-" a look of distaste flitted briefly across his face, but he mastered it quickly- "he matters to me."

Snape regarded him steadily out of hooded, dark eyes. "You really do love her," he said at length. It wasn't a question.

It was Draco's turn to snort now. "What, giving her half my life force wasn't enough proof for you?"

"This goes all the way back to that time you were sick," Snape said slowly, "doesn't it? You were going on about her in your fever-state. You've loved her that long, Draco, and you still married someone else?"

"I was duty-bound to uphold my family's wishes," Draco said dully. "I didn't see any way around it. And at that point I was still fighting my feelings- telling myself that all I felt for her was lust. That I wanted her, _needed_ her, even- but never that I loved her. I-" he paused and looked away from Snape, refusing to meet the older man's eyes as he made a confession that, in retrospect, shamed him deeply- "I bought this house for her and presented her with it on our commencement day. I asked her to be my mistress."

His eyes were pulled back to Snape's when the potions master uttered a short bark of laughter- it was a sharp sound, but surprisingly, genuine. He was staring at Draco with both eyebrows raised incredulously. "Did I hear you correctly?" Snape asked- struggling, it appeared, to hold further laughter at bay. "You asked _Hermione Granger_ to be your _mistress_, and you're still alive to tell the tale?"

Draco smiled faintly. "Just proves she loves me right back."

"Hm," Snape said. "Still, I'd have thought you'd know better than to imagine that she would consider such an arrangement for a single moment. You might as well have asked Minerva McGonagall."

Draco gave a quick, surprised laugh at that idea, but then closed his eyes, a pained expression settling on his face. "I just wish I knew what to _do _about my family now," he said. "My father will never stand for this, even _with_ the Dark Lord defeated." He shook his head once, decisively, back and forth. "Not a mudblood; never. We'll have to live in hiding. The protections on this house should be-"

"Draco." Snape's voice was so horribly, frighteningly gentle that Draco went immediately very still, his breath catching in his throat, suddenly sure of what must be coming, though he could hardly wrap his mind around the concept.

He stared at Snape with wide, shocked eyes as the older man said, "your father did not survive the battle, Draco. I'm sorry."

"But-" Draco whispered, "but-" he couldn't seem to get any more words to come. Instead, he sat up, wincing as he did so, but determined nonetheless, and swung his legs over the side of the bed so that he was facing his mentor full-on. "That can't be," he said finally, his voice oddly constricted. "He wouldn't have let anyone kill him. He- he was the best duelist the Death Eaters had. How- Severus, how?"

"You are right," Snape said, "your father was more powerful than any of us, save the Dark Lord himself. He was his right-hand man, as you are aware; his number-one general. But with that power came a much closer bond to the Dark Lord than you or I had. So when Voldemort died, and the Dark Mark burned us- it was ten times more intense for Lucius. From what I've heard, _that's_ what killed your father."

"Oh," Draco said. It appeared to be all he could think of to say. He continued to stare at Snape with haunted eyes. The potions master reached out and clamped a hand on his shoulder. "There was something else I heard about your father," he said quietly. "Would you like me to tell you?"

Draco gave the barest nod, his eyes never leaving Snape's.

"He wasn't with Voldemort at the end. He was looking for you. Someone- I believe it was Bellatrix- stumbled across Pansy's body, and told your father about it. He started asking about you, but no one had seen you in nearly two hours. He panicked. He abandoned Voldemort in order to search for you. I was one of the last people to see him, not long before your elf found me. He was out of his mind with worry. He might not have shown it very often, Draco, but your father did love you. In the end, his priorities were clear."

Draco dropped his head forward into his hands, muttering something through his fingers that might have been "bloody hell." They stayed like that for a long time, Snape's hand resting on Draco's shoulder, a solid, comforting weight. Then, abruptly, Draco's head shot up, the sight of his wide, quartz-colored eyes alarming Snape. There was such fear deep in those eyes. They were a child's eyes.

An orphan's eyes.

"What about my mother?" Draco asked.

Snape frowned, taken aback. "Your mother wasn't a part of the battle, was she?" he asked in confusion. "Surely your father would have put her out of harm's way?"

"Oh, God," Draco said, his voice hoarse, alarming- on the edge of panic. "So no one's checked on my mother?"

"Draco, what-"

"Her _ring!_" Draco burst out, as though this should have been the most obvious thing in the world. "Her wedding ring was magically bound to father's. If either of them were to die, the stone in the other one's ring would turn black and shatter. And she was left all alone at the manor, and she wasn't herself- father sedated her, and- and Merlin, I've got to find her!"

He shot to his feet, then swayed and would have fallen, had Snape not rocketed up beside him to offer support. "Draco," Snape said urgently, to the boy who had crashed against his shoulder, "you need to lie back down. You are not recovered; you need more rest. I will go to your mother, right now. Leave it to me."

But Draco wasn't having it. Stubbornly gritting his teeth, putting all his concentration, all his effort, into simply placing one foot in front of the other, he pushed away from Snape and staggered toward the door. "She's _my_ mother," he ground out, "I have to go to her." He reached the doorframe and grabbed onto it, struggling to keep himself upright. "Are you coming with me, or not?"

Snape strode over to him, his face grim, and this time seized him by both shoulders. "Draco," he said, giving him a small shake, "don't you understand that if you leave this house, you could be killing Miss Granger, and consequently yourself? The two of you are connected now- and you are the one responsible, so don't you bloody well forget it! Dumbledore has confirmed that she is still drawing on your life force- that is why you remain so weak- and if you remove yourself from her presence-" he left the sentence hanging, watching as Draco's eyes widened in realization, before continuing; "ordinarily you would have an hour to be apart from her before the consequences proved fatal, but under the current circumstances, I am convinced you would have only a fraction of that. You simply _cannot leave this house_, Draco. I'm sorry."

"Oh, goddamn it to _hell_," Draco swore vehemently, and then his legs were buckling and he was sliding toward the floor, and he had just felt Snape catch him beneath the arms when, yet again-

The world went black.

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A/N:

Sorry so short again; that's all I can seem to produce lately, what with all the crazyness in my life. The house is ours- now, let the renovations begin! (Because actually, Gotsnape, it's not lovely- it's a dump! But hey- it has potential!) Anyway, for those who also have been following my other W.I.P. "Sometimes When We Touch", there will be an update a week from today- it will also be short, but at least it will be something. My muse for that story has beenappallingly flakey since I lost that one chapter months ago :o(

And there is public voting going on right now for the Dangerous Liaisons Awards- sort of like, oscars for the best Draco/Hermione fics out there. Three of my fics have been nominated in four different categories- VE is in the running for best W.I.P. and best characterization of Hermione. Email me if you want the link to go and vote, either for me or my good friend and Sometimes-beta Alex25, who is also a very talented DM/HG writer, or for some other story altogether- there are many, many good nominees to choose from.


	18. Chapter 18: Telepathy

"Mother," Draco said, and then, when she continued to stare silently into space, repeated more insistently, "_mother._"

Narcissa blinked, and a measure of focus reappeared in her eyes. "Oh, Draco," she said, in a pleasantly bemused tone of voice, "how nice of you to stop by for a visit." It was just, for all the world, as if he hadn't already been sitting with her for over twenty minutes. Smiling distractedly, Narcissa glanced around the room. "Why on earth didn't you bring Pansy, dear?" she asked. "And where can your father have gotten to?" Her brow knitted slightly. "I don't believe it's his fox hunting day… although… come to think of it…" she turned hopelessly confused eyes on her son. "What day _is_ it again, darling? I've gone and plain forgotten."

Draco dropped his face into his hands in despair.

The room he was in was furnished with many of his mother's favorite things from her personal sitting room in the manor- but though she seemed to genuinely believe herself at home, which was some comfort to Draco, _he_ knew better- they were in St. Mungo's hospital, in the ward for the incurably mentally damaged- the same ward occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Frank Longbottom, as a matter of fact, though Draco's mother had her own private room- or rather, a suite, consisting of a bedroom, this sitting room, and a lavish bath, all done to resemble her favorite spots at home. Her most devoted house elf, Peepsy, had even taken up residence here in the hospital with her.

It had been a week since the final battle had ended with the defeat of Lord Voldemort and the death, among many others, of Draco's father. Six days since Snape, after laying an unconscious Draco back in his bed, had apparated directly to Malfoy Manor and found Narcissa huddled on the floor in the corner of a darkened room, rocking back and forth and babbling incoherently to herself, completely oblivious to the half-dozen or so house elves that were crouched in a semi-circle around her, staring aghast at their mistress with their gigantic, luminous eyes.

Five days since Draco had awakened to discover that not only was Hermione still as deeply unconscious-bordering-comatose as ever, but that his mother had been placed in the hospital, in the mental ward no less- the combination of which two facts had caused him to fly completely off the handle, shouting about the utter unacceptability of his mother occupying a bed in a common hospital ward; first demanding her immediate release and then, once Snape had managed to convince him, not without considerable difficulty, that St. Mungo's really was the best place for her at the moment, insisting that she at least be given her own private rooms, to be furnished with a list of items from the manor that he quickly drew up himself. As money was no object, his wish was quickly granted by the hospital.

Four days since Draco had felt strong enough to make his first brief visit to his mother- he'd only dared stay fifteen minutes or so, and there hadn't been much to see at any rate; Narcissa had been practically catatonic at that point in time, lying motionless in her bed (an ornate affair straight from her bedchamber at home) and staring fixedly up at the ceiling; tears slipping steadily down the sides of her face to dampen her white-blonde hair, so like Draco's own. Feeling miserable and helpless, Draco had returned to the cottage deeply fatigued from even such a short time spent away from Hermione, only just making it back to his bed as the room began to lurch and spin; collapsing fully-clothed on top of the blankets, just managing to throw an arm over Hermione's still form before the darkness took him.

Three days since he'd returned to the hospital to find his mother sitting up in bed- but he'd only stayed a moment that time, because when she'd seen him come into the room she had called him Lucius- then glanced down at her hand- the place where her wedding ring should have been- and, finding nothing there (her ring with the cracked and blackened stone had been removed by the hospital staff at some point while she'd slept), had screamed and screamed and screamed. She'd had to be sedated. Draco had asked Snape to apparate to the manor, find the insurance paperwork on his mother's wedding ring- it included a photograph and a detailed description of the piece- take it to a certain jeweler in Hogsmeade Village and commission a replacement ring to be completed as soon as wizardly possible. The new ring would have no magical properties whatsoever; it would simply be a look-alike, with a crystal-clear, sparkling stone in the center.

Two days since the replacement ring had been completed- it had only taken a matter of hours, as there was no magic to incorporate into the design- and Draco's order had been bumped to the head of the queue because, again, money had been no object; Draco now being in control not only of his own independent inheritance from his grandparents, but of the entire Malfoy estate as well. He had taken the ring to the hospital and slipped it onto his mother's finger himself- she'd still been heavily sedated- then stooped to kiss her forehead before returning to the cottage once more. Later that day as the sun had gone down- dusk was the traditional time of day for a Malfoy funeral to occur- he and Snape had stood solemnly in the private cemetery on the grounds of the Malfoy estate, the only two witnesses as Lucius and Pansy were lowered into the ground, to join nearly twenty generations of Malfoy ancestors in eternal slumber. Draco had thrown the first fistful of sod onto each casket- for his wife he'd even tossed a single flower- a Pansy, her namesake, of course- before turning his back on the two fresh graves with their painfully new, ornate markers; for Lucius, a black marble obelisk; for Pansy, a graceful white angel. As they'd walked out of the graveyard, Snape had informed Draco that he was under close investigation by the Ministry- but that he didn't think Draco need worry very much, as Dumbledore himself had already testified on his behalf, and besides, there was no punishment the Ministry could impose on Draco without imposing it also on Hermione. Taking his leave of his mentor in the wake of this information, Draco had barely made it home- so wrung-out did he feel; both physically and emotionally exhausted.

One day since Severus had arrived at lunchtime with the news that Narcissa was up and about, and seemed in good spirits- yet appeared to have no recollection of anything that had happened from the final battle on; she believed herself to be at home, and kept asking for her husband. Draco, who was seated at the kitchen table with Pinky, reading a newspaper article about Harry Potter's slow and painful recovery, and who had spent the morning with Hermione, sitting beside her still form on the bed, just talking to her, alternately holding her hand and playing absentmindedly with her hair, felt his heart crack just a little bit more at this news. There were two women he loved in all the world and both of them, in different ways, were lost to him.

And now here he was in his mother's hospital room, head in his hands as Narcissa, not seeming even to sense that anything was amiss with her son, gazed about the room dreamily and called to Peepsy to bring more tea, asking the little creature, when she appeared, if she knew where "Master Lucius" was- the elf, with a small curtsy, replying that "no, ma'am, I hasn't been seeing the Master today."

_Not a lie_, Draco thought, growing slightly hysterical and rising to leave- he couldn't stay and watch this any longer, it was tearing him up inside- _no, not a lie at all_.

"Draco, darling," his mother called out as he made for the door, bringing him up short in surprise; she'd seemed so out-of-it today, he hadn't honestly expected her even to notice his departure. He turned slowly back to face her.

She tutted him gently, shaking her head. "Honestly, Draco, leaving without saying good-bye? Did I teach you no manners at _all_?" She sounded so much like her old self, it caught at Draco's heart.

"I'm sorry mother," he said contritely, re-crossing the room to her, bending to kiss the cheek she proffered him. "That was positively rude of me, you are right. It's just that my… my mind is on other things."

"Well, of course it is," Narcissa said, a wide, knowing smile spreading over her face. "You're a newlywed, aren't you? …But that reminds me, where _is_ dear Pansy? She always visits with you." She glanced around the room once more, her smile vanishing to be replaced by that look of bemusement that seemed so common to her today. "And where _has_ your father got to?" she asked fretfully, starting to twist her new, fake wedding ring, nervously, around and around on her finger. "He'll be so disappointed to have missed you. You know, Draco, your father is not the most… demonstrative man, but he really is so proud of you, and very fond of Pansy."

"I know, mother," Draco managed to choke out, through a throat that was suddenly very tight. "I- I'll call ahead next time, give you some warning. Then maybe… father… can…" He trailed off; he couldn't bring himself to say it. "But I really need to be going now; Pansy, she's… indisposed."

(Which was not a lie either, strictly speaking.)

"Oh," Narcissa exclaimed, "oh my, then you must get home to her at once, darling! Why didn't you say something earlier, I never would have kept you! I hope it's nothing serious?"

"No, mother, she's just… resting."

(Right. Resting in peace. The mediwizards had been absolutely adamant that he play along with his mother's delusions, not say anything to upset her- but Merlin, this was horrible.)

A sly glimmer came into Narcissa's eye then. "Well, I do hope whatever trouble she's having is only a _little one_."

With a pang, Draco remembered the toast his father had made at his wedding reception- to the young couple he had said that he hoped all their future troubles would be "little ones"- referring, of course, to children. Narcissa was hinting, in a less-than-subtle way, that she was ready to be a grandmother.

"It's nothing like that, mum," Draco said, his voice cracking just the slightest bit, "don't get your hopes up. But look, I'll be back really soon," he added, seeing her face fall, "in fact- we'll do tea tomorrow, all right? I just can't promise that Pansy will be feeling up to coming, that's all. But I'll be here; count on it." And giving her one more peck on the cheek, he took his leave.

00000

He had just closed the door to her rooms behind him, blinking in the sudden harsh, white hospital glare that assaulted his eyes- a shock to leave a place that really did resemble his mother's softly-lit and feminine sitting room at home, only to find himself abruptly in such a bare and sterile atmosphere as a hospital hallway- when it hit him.

The intensity of it almost knocked him off his feet- he actually did stagger sideways and fetch up against the wall, his legs nearly buckling with the force of the knowledge that was crashing over him like a tidal wave; Hermione was awake, and she needed him.

He leaned against the wall, fighting to regain his bearings; he had not expected this, that his newfound connection with Hermione, the result of the binding spell, would have an almost telepathic quality- yet there was no denying that what he was experiencing right now was something akin to telepathy. There were no words involved, just the overwhelming certainty that he had to get home _right the fuck now_, because-

_Hermione was awake, and she needed him._

His lips formed her name soundlessly, and then he was running- shoving away from the wall and taking off down the corridor, heedless of the startled glances and even shouts of those he passed, racing with every ounce of speed his lithe frame possessed toward the hospital's lobby- the only area of the building that was cleared for apparition.

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It was a wonder he didn't splinch himself, so great was his haste. He arrived, thankfully all in one piece, on the front walk of the cottage, and was in motion instantly; sprinting up the walkway, taking the little house's half-dozen or so front steps two at a time, blowing the door inward nearly off its hinges with the force of his shouted "_Reducto!_" Not just anyone would have been able to do that, mind you; the wards and protections on the cottage would have been pretty worthless if they had- but the house had been "programmed" to respond to Draco's magic; his and Hermione's, and no one else's.

Ignoring Pinky's startled cry, he took the steps to the second floor as quickly as he'd taken those to the porch, then hurtled down the corridor and through the door to the master bedroom only to come to a skidding halt, breathing hard, one hand still on the doorknob and his eyes trained across the room, fixed on-

"Hermione."

His voice was uncharacteristically hoarse- hoarse with emotion as he spoke her name.

She was sitting up in bed, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders in all its thick, tumultuous glory, her eyes wide and confused. She had awakened alone in a strange place- after all, she'd only ever been in this room one time before- conscious, anyway- and only briefly then. Clearly it was her shock and disorientation that had called out to Draco so stridently.

They stared at each other for a long moment in silence, Hermione's chest rising and falling with hitching rapidity, breathing nearly as hard as Draco with the shock of her awakening. Then, wordlessly, Hermione raised her arms toward him, almost like a child asking to be picked up, and suddenly all of Draco's troubles- his mother, the Ministry investigation- seemed far-off and unimportant, for that moment at least, and he was across the room in two great strides, engulfing her in his arms and burying his face in her hair and thanking God, thanking Merlin, thanking God.

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(A/N: It's Thursday afternoon at 3:30! That's about 6 hours earlier than I usually post on Thursday evenings, but since this chapter is also like, 3 weeks late, I figured I can jump the gun by a few hours. Besides which, I know for a fact that the computer will be dismantled in 6 hours, as tonight we are moving it to the new place. It's the last thing to go- that and the cats. Ah, the joys of taking a long ride with two seriously stressed out cats in the back seat... but I digress. Hope you like the chapter- dunno when the next will be out, or even when the computer will be plugged in again! Don't take that as an excuse not to review, though- I can still check those from my parents' house!)


	19. Chapter 19: Confrontation and Recovery

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Hermione spent the next several days, following her initial awakening and reunion with Draco, drifting in and out of consciousness as her body slowly regained its strength. Sometimes when she awoke Draco would be there; other times not. Her conscious periods were brief and hazy- so much so that at times she wondered whether they were not, in fact, merely extra-vivid dreams.

She woke at times to find Pinky sitting in the chair beside the bed, quietly knitting on what appeared to be a enormous and steadily lengthening pink scarf- three times as long as the elf was tall, at least… and there was one occasion on which she opened her eyes to find Snape in what she'd come, foggily, to think of as "Pinky's chair", leaning forward on the edge of the seat, elbows on knees and long fingers interlaced beneath his chin, regarding her intently through his dark, hooded eyes. Before she could find the words to voice her surprise, however, darkness descended like a veil and covered her again.

The most surreal of these experiences was when she awoke to find the chair occupied by Ron. It was almost, though not entirely, dark at the time- the faintest grey light was shining in through the window, making the time of day either dawn or dusk; Hermione couldn't tell which. Her internal clock had long since ceased functioning with any degree of accuracy whatsoever. Ron was faintly backlit where he slumped in the armchair, dozing, as Hermione blinked at him in surprise- then blinked again, harder, expecting him to be gone when she reopened her eyes. But he wasn't gone… he was still there, just as solid and- well, as _Ron_ as ever. She would have smiled but for the fact that he looked so haggard; his freckles standing out in contrast to skin too pale to be healthy, with dark circles of fatigue under his eyes. How long had it been since he'd slept properly, she wondered- not this fitful doze she was witnessing, but had really _slept_, lying down in a bed?

Propping herself up on an elbow, she reached out to touch his arm- just a brief, light graze of fingertips before, still weak, she collapsed back onto the bed. It was enough. Ron's cobalt eyes flickered open and settled on her.

The expression on his face at that moment was… unsettling, to say the least. He looked as though he could hardly decide whether to hug her or hit her.

"Ron?" she asked, her voice hesitant; shaken.

Then he was out of the chair like a spring uncoiling, and instantly pacing, pacing the room.

Despite the difficulty it presented her, Hermione struggled back up onto her elbows. "Ron," she said again, brow creased now in anxiety. He paused near the door and whirled to face her, abruptly raising a hand and raking it through his coppery hair, which appeared today to have taken on an unkempt quality that was more normally characteristic of Harry than Ron.

He opened his mouth- shut it. Shook his head; a jerky, agitated motion. Opened his mouth again.

"It is true?" he burst out at last. "What I've heard about you and Malfoy? He told me himself and I didn't believe the lying scum, not for a second, but then Snape and… and now even Dumbledore…" he threw his hands up in the air. "Hermione- it can't be true!"

Hermione took a deep breath, her eyes quickly scanning the room for Draco, caught between wishing he was there and feeling relieved that he wasn't. Ron's behavior was… well, worrisome. The room seemed to give a slight lurch beneath her and she thought she felt darkness encroaching on her from the corners of the room, but fought it off with grit-teethed determination; she didn't want to fall back into oblivion right now. This needed to be dealt with, head-on.

She swallowed hard. In her brief periods of wakefulness, her thoughts and feelings about Draco had been conflicted. Well, no. That wasn't exactly accurate. Her _thoughts_ had been conflicted, all right- and when Harry entered into them, downright anguished- but her feelings… to be perfectly honest, her feelings had never once wavered since that first moment she'd opened her eyes to find herself alone in the blue and silver bedroom.

She had wanted Draco then- desperately; deliriously, almost- had wanted him so urgently that her need had cried out to him over all the distance between Hogsmeade and London- hundreds of miles- and had brought him running.

And she wanted Draco now.

Her thoughts on the subject, when she attempted to think logically, were, of course, rather more complex- but there was one thing she was sure of; she wanted Draco safe and well, she didn't want him coming to harm, and judging from the way Ron looked right now- as if he were nearly capable of hurting _her_, one of his oldest and most beloved friends- he posed a considerable threat to Draco at the moment. So she needed to hash this out with him, right now.

But the thing was, she had absolutely no idea what to say- how to explain herself to her best friend.

She took a deep breath; in… out. "Ron," she stammered, "I-"

That was all she got out before she saw realization strike Ron, suddenly and completely. He looked for an instant as if his legs might actually buckle. She had thought he'd looked pale before, when he'd been dozing in the bedside chair, but he went sheet-white now; frighteningly white.

"Merlin, it's true," he breathed. "Hermione, how could you do this? How could you do this to Harry?"

"I'm sorry," she croaked, "it wasn't planned, it just… happened-"

"_How, Hermione?_" Ron shouted. "How in the _hell_ did- did you and Malfoy _JUST HAPPEN?_ How could someone as clever as you do something so stupid? How long has he been stringing you along, eh? Because that's all it is- you know that, don't you? You _have_ to know that, you couldn't possibly be blind enough to actually believe that _Draco Malfoy_ has _feelings_ for you? Come on, Hermione, he's used you to get out of a prison term, that is the extent of his interest in you! WAKE UP!"

"You don't understand!" Hermione burst out, "this isn't a new thing, Ron! Draco and I were together at Hogwarts, we-" she broke off abruptly as Ron's face went in a heartbeat from white to purple. Now he looked positively apoplectic. She knew him well enough to anticipate the outburst that was coming, and had a brief instant in which to wish fervently that she hadn't just blurted out this particular fact at this particular moment.

And then the explosion hit.

"_WHAT_ DID YOU JUST SAY? You and that Death Eater scumbag were _what?_ When in the hell were you together at Hogwarts? Was it around the time he called you a filthy little mudblood- oh wait, I reckon it must have been, since that happened _every bloody year we were there!_ So was it before or after he said that he hoped the heir of Slytherin killed _you_ first, eh? Or was it closer to the time he said that as soon as 'his lord' came into power, the mudbloods would get what was coming to them, starting with you? Maybe it was nearer to when we met him in the woods that night of the Quidditch World Cup, when that poor Muggle family was being tortured and he asked how _you'd_ like to be the one up in the air, floating upside-down with your knickers on display- was that it, Hermione? Was that when you decided to- to _get together_ with him, as you say? _WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?_ And what about HARRY? If you- if you and Malfoy were- were- and then you dated Harry, you agreed to _marry_ him, for Merlin's sake, how could you toy with him like that? He LOVES you, Hermione, you are the only reason he's ALIVE right now! And you… God… you…"

He broke off finally, panting from his tirade, leaving a shocked Hermione to whisper, "Ron- I- I'm sorry- I didn't…"

Ron sank onto the edge of the bed, down near Hermione's feet, and dropped his head into his hands. When he spoke again, his voice was muffled.

'Harry wouldn't let me be with him at the end. Not for the final confrontation. I know you were angry that he left you behind, Hermione, but in the end he left me too. It was something he had to face alone, that's what he said. I had to stand there and watch him walk away and the next time I saw him he was on the ground, he was… mangled. God, I'll never forget the sight of him like that. I wouldn't leave him again, the mediwizards tried to throw me out and I told them to piss right the hell off. I stayed right there with him the whole time they were working on him and- Hermione, I swear this- there was a moment when he stopped breathing, and they said he was gone. I knew what I had to do then; the reason I had stayed. I leaned over and I whispered your name in his ear- just your name, that's all- and when nothing happened I whispered it again, and then he breathed, Hermione. He came back for _you_. For you."

He raised his head then and looked at her with haunted, bloodshot eyes. "And now I come to find out that you have this- this _history_ with Draco Malfoy that you never saw fit to confide in either of us… I thought we were meant to be best friends, Hermione. I thought best friends _told_ each other things like that! And I- I know you almost died as well and I know that Malfoy saved you, and I suppose I should be grateful to him for that because I still… I _love_ you, Hermione, and if you had died it would have ripped me apart. But I can't- I just can't quite wrap my mind around what you've done to Harry- how you've betrayed him." Sighing deeply, he stood, and approached Hermione where she remained sitting up on her elbows, eyes wide, rendered completely speechless by Ron's revelation about Harry's brush with death- and incentive for life.

Standing over her, he cupped her cheek with surprising gentleness. "I _am_ glad you're safe," he said quietly, "and I do- I do still love you, Hermione. But Merlin help me, I don't _like_ you very much at the moment, so- so I have to go."

He bent, planted a kiss on her forehead, spun on his heel, and left.

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The first sob actually took Hermione by surprise- there had been no build-up to it; all of a sudden it was just there, ripping through her weak and tired body, doubling her over with its force. And more followed, and more, until she collapsed onto her side, curled into a ball, one arm trailing over the edge of the bed, and just cried and cried. She couldn't say when Draco arrived exactly- time had ceased to mean much to her by that point. One moment she was sobbing alone and in the next he was just _there_, gathering her, flushed and feverish and sticky-damp from crying as she was, into his arms and rocking her, shushing her, stroking her hair.

He asked her repeatedly what was the matter, but she was crying too hard to get out an intelligible reply. In the end he just held her until she fell asleep with her face pressed into the hollow where his shoulder met his throat, then eased her back down on the bed, performed a temperature-reducing spell followed by a dreamless sleep charm, pulled the covers up to her chin, and went downstairs to inquire of Pinky whether anyone had been by while he'd been out visiting his mother. It was only when Pinky mentioned the name 'Ron Weasley' that Draco indulged in a little meltdown of his own, shouting and kicking at the furniture (which merely caused Pinky to roll her eyes and retire to her room until the storm passed)- and then ultimately going to work on the wards that guarded the house. They had previously allowed entrance to any person who approached with no ill intent in his or her heart- but now Draco, muttering furiously all the while, pausing every now and then to shove hanks of sugar-white hair violently back out of his eyes, modified them both quickly and competently to no longer allow one Ronald Weasley access, period, end of discussion.

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The following day Hermione was able to leave the bed for the first time since the battle; she made her way to the room's window seat where she spent several hours watching the light change over the Hogwarts Lake, and the lights twinkle on in the castle, one by one as nightfall approached. She took dinner there, along with Draco, and ultimately fell asleep there, leaning backward into him, her back against his chest and his arms locked loosely about her waist from behind.

Draco sat there with her in his arms for a long while, watching the progress of the moon over the lake and breathing in the scent of her hair, before finally rising and carrying her warm, sleepy weight across the room to bed.

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The next morning Hermione made it downstairs, and by evening was walking out in the garden, enjoying the breeze in her hair and the scent of the roses, which, through their magical protections, were in full bloom despite the snow. She was impressively bundled against the cold thanks largely to Pinky; among other things, she was wearing the scarf the elf had been working on over the past several days, which, though wrapped several times about her neck, still managed to trail on the snowy ground behind her, so long had it grown. Still, even all this protection against the cold did not prevent Draco from going ballistic when he returned from a forty-minute visit with his mother to find her outside.

She didn't resist his ministrations as he whisked her back indoors, but neither was she in the least intimidated by his obvious displeasure at finding her so exposed to the elements. All she did as Draco chafed and blew on her hands was inform him quite calmly and with iron determination that she intended to accompany him to St. Mungo's the following day. It was high time, she had decided, that she pay Harry a visit.

Draco looked up at her, her hands still captured between both of his, his eyes narrowed, the expression on his face a peculiar mixture of suspicion and concern.

"Hermione, I really don't think-"

But before he could finish his sentence (and quite possibly spark an enormous argument) the two of them were surprised by a large and haughty looking owl, immediately identifiable as belonging to the Ministry of Magic, swooping in through the back door, which Draco had left ajar in his haste to get Hermione in out of the cold.

The owl landed on the coffee table directly in front of where the young couple was seated on the couch, and extended a leg toward Draco, clacking its mean little beak in impatience. No sooner had Draco untied the scroll it bore, than the creature let loose a sound that was as close to a snort of disdain as any sound an owl could possibly make, then took to wing again and was gone.

"What an utterly nasty bird," Hermione mused, as Draco tore open the letter. "I never knew they could _be_ so- Draco? Draco, what is it?"

Having finished scanning the letter, he had raised eyes to her that were alarmingly wide, pale and shocked. Hermione knew that she was the only person in the world, save perhaps for Severus Snape, that Draco would allow to see him in such a moment of naked and unguarded fear.

"Draco, you're scaring me," she said, reaching for the paper that he still held in hands that appeared to have gone wooden and stiff. "Draco-" and her voice was rising steadily toward hysteria, she couldn't _help_ it- "what is going _on?_"

"Severus was wrong," Draco said dully as she pried the paper from his fingers. "Even Dumbledore was wrong. The Ministry- they're going to try me after all."

"_Try_ you? On what charges?"

But he didn't answer- he didn't need to. Turning her attention to the scroll in her hands, she could see well enough for herself. The bulk of the letter was written in black, but the charges stood out in glaring red ink, ink like blood.

Treason.

War Crimes.

_Murder._

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(A/N: Oh, how I love pissed-as-hell Ron! It's what he was made for, ya know? Next chapter; Hermione and Harry have their long-overdue tête-à-tête… and the trial! Dun dun dun…)


	20. Chapter 20: Hospital Encounters

Hermione separated from Draco in the lobby of St. Mungo's Hospital, with arrangements to meet again in two hours' time. It was evening and Draco's mother had been after him relentlessly, for days, to dine with her- but of course he had had to keep putting her off as dinner with Narcissa would take substantially more time than the forty minutes or so he'd been able to stay away from Hermione without having to fear for both her life and his own. Now, however, that Hermione would be nearby, within the same building, even, he didn't have to worry about the adverse effects of the binding spell, should the two of them be parted for a prolonged period of time. He could have a leisurely supper with his mother knowing that Hermione was safe visiting Harry just a couple of floors down.

Watching him stride away with a bouquet of flowers tucked under his arm, Hermione couldn't help but feel a quick, fierce pang of envy for his composure and confidence, even in the face of the greatest adversity. His trial would begin in three days and, to the outside observer at least, he looked completely unruffled by the fact. She knew him well enough to know that this wasn't actually the case- had awoken to find him pacing the room at three in the morning just that past night- but oh, his impenetrable façade! He walked through the hospital as if he owned it (and his family had donated enough money to it over the years that perhaps this attitude wasn't entirely unjustified), completely impervious to the stares and whispers that followed him. Like most news in the wizarding world, that of his upcoming trial- and, obviously, of the serious accusations against him- was spreading fast, and Draco, with his striking appearance, was certainly a recognizable figure in wizarding society. But the hostile glares that were directed his way were entirely wasted; they might as well have been directed at stone wall. Like water off a duck's back, they affected Draco not the least.

Not visibly, at any rate. And sometimes, Hermione conceded, that really was what mattered.

She herself exuded no such confidence; she was desperately nervous to be seeing Harry, and she was sure it showed. Making her way to the main desk in the lobby, she asked the receptionist, a harried-looking young woman she vaguely remembered from Hogwarts- she'd been several years ahead and in Hufflepuff, if Hermione's memory served- where she could find Harry Potter's room.

The receptionist gave her an appraising, less-than-friendly look that ended with a roll of the eyes. "Of course you want to see him," she said coolly, "you and half the other witches in Britain. I'll tell you what I've been telling people all day- he's only seeing close friends. Besides, won't you people get it through your heads? The man is engaged. So take whatever magazine you've brought for him to autograph and bugger off. Poor bloke doesn't need all this."

A furious blush rose to Hermione's cheeks and she very nearly did turn right around and leave- she could buy some reading material at the hospital gift shop and wait for Draco on a bench in the lobby- but no, this had to be done. She owed this to Harry, by God. She still loved him desperately- he was her best friend, after all- and she wanted to hurt him as little as possible. That meant telling him her new circumstances right now, herself, before the rumor mill had a chance to reach him first. So she swallowed the burning shame she felt at the fact that this witch, who obviously didn't recognize her, was defending Harry's status as an engaged man when she had come here for the express purpose of breaking off that engagement, and said, "My name is Hermione Granger. I believe I qualify as a close friend."

The receptionist's bored, faintly disdainful expression vanished instantly, to be replaced by one of mingled reproach and relief. "So _here_ you are!" she exclaimed. "For _days_ we've been wondering where you've been." Then she added, her voice softening just a shade, "I did hear you'd been wounded also, and were being treated privately. Is everything all right?" At Hermione's affirmation, she added, "I'm Vicky. I'm so glad you're here. One of the healers told me that Harry must have called your name a hundred times while he was delirious. He's only just fully come back to his senses yesterday. If you'll hold on for just a moment, I'll call security to escort you to his room. It's a precaution we have to take with all of his visitors, you understand. Lot of unsavory characters skulking about, hoping to slip in unnoticed. I tell you, if I catch that wretched Skeeter woman trying to sneak past me _one more time_…."

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Hermione could probably have stood outside the room, one hand on the knob, pulling in deep, desperate breaths and gathering her courage, for an _hour_ had not the security guard been right beside her. He had placed his wand against the magically secured door and mumbled an unlocking spell that was complex, but nothing Hermione couldn't have figured out on her own in ten minutes, then very politely said "I'll leave you here, miss," and stepped back- but he hadn't actually left. His orders were probably to see her enter the room itself, make sure no one slipped in after her, and re-secure the door so that it would allow her out but nobody else in. So she only had a few seconds in which to compose herself, with the earnest-faced young guard breathing annoyingly loudly at her elbow the entire time.

Then she was turning the knob and stepping through into the cool, dim room beyond, pulling the door shut behind her.

It took her a moment to adjust her eyes- the drapes were drawn and it was borderline dark in here. Staring around, she saw every available space cluttered with flowers- gift baskets and candy boxes piled high, _drifts_ of unopened cards and letters. In the middle of this absolute chaos of well wishes lay Harry on a stiff-sheeted white hospital bed, and it hurt Hermione's heart to see him there, hurt it more even than when Vicky downstairs had revealed that torturous little detail about how he had called and called for her while she'd been in another man's bed (doing nothing, mind you, except recovering her strength, but _still_)- hurt her because she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Harry wanted none of this, _none _of it, especially since the vast majority of these things had come from total strangers.

Merlin, it was so unfair. Harry had only ever wanted privacy and normalcy in his life, and this was what he had gotten instead- thrust more into the limelight with each passing year until it had culminated in this- this avalanche of publicity and praise, all simply for doing something he had _had_ to do in order to survive.

The smell of the flowers was cloying; overpowering in the small room. It was not at all an appropriate smell for a room where someone was recovering. To the contrary, the smell was almost… funerary. Hermione gave a small shudder, pulled out her wand and banished the floral scent from the air. Then, for good measure, she crossed to the room's single window and opened it, letting in fresh air and natural light for perhaps the first time since Harry had arrived. Then, unable to stall any longer, she finally turned and approached the bed.

Harry appeared to be sleeping, but only lightly. One hand was resting on his chest, the other arm flung wide, trailing over the edge of the narrow bed. His breathing was regular, but too shallow to belong to a true, deep sleep. Hermione sank down in the armchair beside the bed. She hadn't the heart to wake him quite yet. Glancing around the room again, she decided to clean up a bit. She raised her wand and quietly recited a sorting spell, specifying that those cards and gifts that had been sent by people with whom Harry had actually carried on at least one decent conversation in his life be separated from the mounds and mounds of fan mail. Once this was done, and a far more manageable pile of envelopes and parcels sat apart- bearing return addresses of the Molly and Arthur Weasley, Oliver Wood, Colin Creevey, Neville Longbottom and even Cho Chang, among others- she banished all the rest back to the living room of their flat (well, she supposed with a surprisingly strong pang, it wasn't really _her _flat anymore…) for him to go through later, when he was up to it. Breathing a small sigh of satisfaction over a job well done- the room was much improved now, in her opinion; clean and uncluttered- she looked back at Harry- and found his green eyes open and fixed on her.

"Thanks for that," he said, his voice hoarser than was normal. "The post situation was getting… out of control."

"Harry," she breathed, so filled with conflicted emotions that she couldn't for the moment think of anything else to say.

He struggled up onto his elbows. "It's good to see you, Hermione," he said- but he didn't sound as if he meant it. His voice sounded hollow; emotionless. His eyes were dull and haunted and somehow… lost.

"Harry," she said again, her heart twisting within her, "I-"

"S'alright," he cut her off. "You don't have to explain. Ron was here yesterday when I… recovered my senses, and he… he brought me up to date. It seems a lot has changed since we saw each other last." His mouth twisted in what may have been an attempt at a smile, but looked more like a grimace. Tears sprang to Hermione's eyes.

"Oh, Harry."

"Don't," he said. "I'm just glad to see you're okay. Ron said you fought in the battle after all; that you were very nearly killed. You-" he swallowed, shook his head. "Bloody hell, Hermione. I told you what that would have done to me. At least this way… I don't know, maybe I'll still see you at reunions-"

"God, _no_!" Hermione burst out in mounting panic. This wasn't what she had expected at all! That he would be stunned, yes; hurt, yes; angry, yes, that too. But that he would want to cut her out of his life altogether? Not see one another again until their Hogwarts ten-year reunion, only to exchange pleasantries for thirty seconds and then subside into awkward silence? That wasn't what she'd had in mind at all. It was an old breakup cliché, she knew, but still- she'd been counting on their remaining friends. Her friendship with Harry was one of the things in her life that _defined_ her, and had since she'd been a child, for Merlin's sake. Without it, she would hardly know who she was. "You don't- Harry please, you can't mean-" she couldn't remember when she'd been this tongue-tied.

Reaching out abruptly, he caught her hand. Holding it with surprising gentleness given the situation, he drew her arm toward him and pushed up her sleeve, revealing the two small scars from the snake-bites she'd endured. "So here they are," he muttered, running the thumb of his other hand over the tiny, slightly puckered x's. "Hermione, listen- I understand about your decision to fight. I should have known better than to try to prevent you in the first place. And I'm grateful you're alive, even if that means… well, Ron said something about an irreversible binding curse between you and- Malfoy." He practically choked out the name. "You have to believe me, if I'd been right there beside you, and you'd been dying, and he'd told me that was the only way you could be saved and he knew the spell and I didn't, I'd have been shouting at him to _do it, already_. But what I don't understand is… is you not _minding_ being bound to him. You having feelings for him, and having had them for a long time, and… God, Hermione, it would be difficult for me to come to terms with no matter _who_ it was, but… _Malfoy?_ Malfoy, Hermione? And the fact that I had no idea, no clue- I just… I thought I knew you better than that. _That's _what I can't come to terms with. The fact that I love you, but apparently I don't know you. I don't know you at all. And I gotta tell you, that hurts. That bloody well hurts like a bastard. I-" He broke off. Dropped her hand. Ran his own hands- both of them- through his hair. Bed hair- messier even than normal. Hermione longed to reach out and smooth it down- not a gesture of romance, but of simple friendship and affection, as she had done hundreds of times during the Hogwarts years. But she couldn't do it. A gulf had opened between her and Harry; physically they were in the same room, but the reality was that they might as well have been continents apart.

Harry shifted his gaze so that he was no longer looking directly at her but past her- out through the window she had opened. "God, this is awful," he said softly, as much to himself, it seemed, as to her. Hermione agreed heartily. This wasn't what she had had in mind. Maybe she _should_ have expected something like this, but she hadn't- she really hadn't. Nervous as she'd been about talking to Harry, it had never crossed her mind that he might want her, for all intents and purposes, out of his life forever. Her friendship with Harry _couldn't _be ending. It couldn't. It was, as he had said himself, just too awful. It didn't even bear contemplating.

And yet it was happening. It was happening right now.

She swallowed back a sob, determined to be strong, not to break down. She'd had enough of sobbing lately. The sound recalled Harry's attention to her. "Listen," he said, "erm… I'm tired, actually- really tired, and- I just can't deal with this right now, okay? It's too much, it's too… I don't know. Raw?" He sighed. "And besides, I don't really think there's much left to be said, so… I'll see you later, Hermione. All right?"

And just like that she was dismissed.

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Back outside the room, she leaned against the wall beside Harry's door and put her head in her hands. She had no idea what to do now- either in the short-term, as Draco was still with his mother and would be for some time, and though there was nothing she wanted more than to return to the cottage and crawl into bed, there was the binding spell to think about- or long-term; what would she do for the rest of her life without Harry as her best friend? Possibly without Ron as well? Ron hadn't actually said, the way Harry had in so many words, that he wouldn't want to see her anymore- but neither had he made any secret that he'd been pretty damn cheesed off at her. So for the foreseeable future, anyway, she was without either of the friends that she had relied upon since she'd been eleven years old- an anxious first-year student far from home, overwhelmed by the new world she'd just been incorporated into, trying to hide her insecurity behind bossiness and books.

Closing her eyes, she had a brief, yet powerful vision of two young boys facing down a mountain troll in a girls' bathroom. Saving her life before they even _liked _her. Harry shoving his wand right up the thing's _nose_. Superb wand-work there, Potter. The thought of it made her want to smile and cry all at once.

"Hermione Granger, isn't it?" said an oily voice at her elbow. Hermione snapped her head up with a little, hitching gasp, her eyes seeking to voice and finding- Rita Skeeter. "Yes," the obnoxious woman said, her eyes glittering with a mixture of triumph and dislike behind their equally obnoxious glasses, "I'd recognize that hair anywhere."

"You're not supposed to be here," Hermione said, remembering what Vicky-the-receptionist had told her.

"Neither are you," Skeeter shot back.

"I beg your pardon! I have a bit more right than you-"

Rita gave a small, unpleasant laugh. "No, dear. What I meant was, you are not supposed to be out here, in the corridor, crying."

Hermione pressed her palms to her cheeks at this and found that indeed, they were wet with tears. She hadn't even realized that her eyes had been steadily leaking all this time. She'd fought back the sobs earlier, but these slow, sly tears would not, apparently, be so easily controlled. She wiped at them savagely with the backs of her hands.

Rita, watching her, suddenly shot out her own hand and grabbed Hermione's left wrist, holding it forcibly still as she leaned in for a closer look. "And what's this," the shrewd reporter murmured, squinting at the opal ring on Hermione's fourth finger- "this doesn't look like the engagement ring young Mister Potter bought you… and I should know, I tracked down the store he bought it from and hounded the jeweler until he showed me every sketch and photograph of every stage of the creation of that ring." She raised narrowed eyes to Hermione's face. "This is most certainly not it. So- would you care to make a statement as to why you are out here in the hallway crying instead of in there with your… fiancé? Hm? And why it is you're not wearing Harry Potter's ten thousand galleon custom engagement ring? The wizarding public has a right to know, Miss Granger."

Hermione, who had Harry's ring tucked down into the bottom of her pocket- (she'd intended to return it to him but had ended up forgetting all about it in her shock at just how quickly and horribly _wrong_ their conversation had gone)- wrenched her hand away, temper flaring. Oddly enough, it was something of a relief to have Rita's meddling to focus on; to have someone on whom to vent her feelings. She didn't feel quite as lost anymore. "I owe the wizarding public nothing, and you even less. Harry values his privacy, and so do I. Now _leave us alone_. I'm going straight to the front desk and report your presence here, so you'd best be gone before security arrives!"

She stalked off in the direction of the stairwell, but instead of making herself scarce, Rita, the infuriating cow, stayed just a step or two behind her, now dictating rapidly, apparently to a Quick Quotes Quill. Or perhaps she wasn't dictating at all; just thinking aloud in order to taunt Hermione.

Hermione didn't turn around to find out.

"The wedding is off!" Rita proclaimed gaily. "Hermione granger, bushy-haired mud- oh, _excuse_ me, Muggle-born overachiever, unceremoniously dumped by Harry Potter in the aftermath of the Great Battle. The wizarding world is heartbroken to learn that all nuptial festivities have been called off. How did such a tragedy occur? Mister Potter offers no comment at the present time, but the newly rejected Miss Granger, when this reporter discovered her sans engagement ring, crying inconsolably in the corridor outside her former fiancé's hospital room, which had been locked against her, stated that-"

"It was locked against _you_, you horrid liar!" Hermione cried, whirling at last, fists clenched, to face her tormentor. "Here's a headline for you, you ugly old cow-"

"Ladies, ladies," came a smooth, drawling, mildly amused voice, "settle down. A hospital is no place for such language."

Draco was there.

Hermione spun back around to face him in amazement. He must have come around a bend in the hall just as she had turned to face Rita, for she'd had no idea of his presence until he had spoken. What was he doing here! Only about half an hour had passed since they'd parted ways in the lobby. There was no way he could have finished eating dinner with his mother so quickly.

Her face still flushed with the anger Rita had incited in her, and the aftermath of her tears, her eyes sought his questioningly- but before she could even begin to phrase her questions with her lips, he shot her a quick yet crystal clear look- the same look he'd given her in the corridor at Hogwarts when Pansy had come upon them together after their stolen afternoon in Hogsmeade- _play along_, that look said.

Recalling that Rita as yet had no idea that it had been she, Hermione, who had broken off the engagement, and that moreover she had done it in order to be with another man- and not just _any_ other man but the one Harry probably disliked most in all the world, and who would shortly be on trial for war crimes- she quickly reached the conclusion that just for the moment, it was probably wise to keep their relationship under wraps. Yes, Harry knew now- and Ron knew, and Snape knew and Dumbledore knew; that much was certain and by now there might be others as well- but damned if she was going to hand Skeeter this kind of ammunition against her… not to mention a sensational front-page headline. It would come out publicly soon enough, but not just yet. Not here and now. Not in such a way as would benefit this bottom-feeding _bitch_.

So, conscious of Rita's scrutiny, she schooled her face into the expression of cool disdain she had so often directed toward Draco during their school days. "Malfoy," she said, "what an unexpected… pleasure."

"Miss Granger," Draco returned, with a slight incline of his head and an unmistakable sneer, "you're looking… lovely, as always. Been to visit Potter, I presume? And how is the boy wonder faring? From the look of things not too well, I'd say. You seem rather… out of sorts." Pulling out his wand, he conjured a handkerchief and handed it to her with a small, rather mocking flourish.

"Do accept this with my compliments and make yourself presentable, Miss Granger. You needn't bother about returning it. I believe there is a Witches' Room just down the hall. And as for you, Ms. Skeeter, lovely to see you again, would you mind terribly if I were to accompany you downstairs? I believe there are a few points about my upcoming trial that you and I should…. discuss." And taking Rita by the elbow, he steered her away.

The reporter went willingly enough, as Draco's trial was going to be big news. Whilst she dug frantically through her oversized, garish handbag for a fresh quill, Draco threw a look to Hermione over his shoulder and mouthed the words _stay there_. Then they were gone.

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Hermione was leaning heavily against the wall, arms wrapped about herself as if to ward off a chill, when Draco returned. He was moving fast, and she barely had time to register his presence before he'd engulfed her in his arms, pulling her hard against his chest. She melted into him instantly- it was the most natural thing in the world to do- her forehead resting on his shoulder, her face nuzzled into his chest. He kept one arm wrapped tightly about her waist, brought the other hand up to stroke her hair soothingly.

"Was it that awful?" he quietly asked the top of her head.

She nodded against him, felt her breath begin to hitch. Draco's arms tightened protectively about her. She turned her head to the side, resting her cheek against him and freeing herself to speak. She was hiccupping now in an attempt to keep the tears away, so deep was her upset. "It was…(hic)…horrible," she managed. "I don't…(hic)…think he…(hic)…wants to…(hic)…see me ev-ever again! And I deser-(hic)-herved everything he said, and I just… I can't…" it was too much. She dissolved entirely into tears, her hands fisting in the soft material of Draco's shirt. "Harry and Ron are my best friends," she sobbed brokenheartedly. "I don't even nuh-know who I am withou-hout them!"

Draco soothed her as best he could, while visions of eviscerating Ron and Harry danced in his head. "They'll come around," he said, "I know they will. They love you, Hermione. And the thing is… you inspire a forever kind of love. I mean… look at what you've done to me, woman!" Catching her under the chin, he tilted her head back and kissed her gently on the mouth; on each of her eyes, puffy and red as they were, and finally on the tip of her nose. Then he pressed the back of his hand to each of her cheeks, her forehead. "I don't like how flushed you are," he said, frowning. "Warm, too."

Hermione managed to smile up at him through her tears. "I'm _crying_, Draco. Of course I'm flushed. Everything isn't a life-and-death illness, mister medic!"

Draco couldn't help but grin at this. Reaching down, he tugged free the silken handkerchief he'd given her earlier, which was still crumpled in her fist, and gently wiped her face with it. "I'm sorry about this," he said, indicating the handkerchief with a tilt of his head just before he vanished it. "I mean the way I spoke to you. We couldn't let on in front of her, you understand that, right? Not if we want to hold on to just a day or two more of peace."

"That's all we have, isn't it?" Hermione asked sadly. "Just a day or two more? Just until the trial starts? It'll all come out then. Oh God, Draco, what are we going to do?"

"Don't," he said sternly, "don't dwell on it now. Come on, we'd better get out of the corridor. I left Skeeter at the front desk and that receptionist was watching her like a hawk, but if she managed to sneak up here once there's always the possibility she could do it again. This isn't a great place for public displays of affection."

Slinging an arm about her shoulder, he began to steer her down the hall.

"What did you tell that cow?" Hermione asked sniffily. And then, "wait- what were you doing at this end of the hospital, anyway? We're not even on the same floor as the ward for permanent- erm- I mean, as your mother's rooms."

"I didn't tell her anything important," Draco said. "And I just sort of… knew you were in trouble, and followed the signal. It was just like how I knew when you'd first woken up. Something about our connection now, I suppose. Kinda cool, actually. Although I'd be curious to know whether it works with any emotions other than distress and anger-"

"Where are we going?" Abruptly, Hermione stopped walking, digging her heels in a little in order to bring Draco to a stop as well and turning suspicious eyes up to him. "This isn't the way out of the hospital."

"No," Draco replied, "I said we'd better get out of the _corridor_, not out of the hospital. I've someplace else in mind. See, I sort of left my mother in the middle of dinner."

"Oh Merlin, that's right," Hermione breathed. "Draco I'm sorry, of course I wouldn't have wanted you to cut that short. Look, I'll just wait down in the lobby for-"

"Absolutely not! With Skeeter prowling around down there? It's out of the question. You're coming in with me."

"Wait, _what?_ I can handle myself with Rita Skeeter, thank you very much, Draco. Remind me to tell you about this time in fourth year, after you'd been such a complete bastard, by the way, feeding her information about Harry, and- anyway, that's all off the point, the point is, I _can't _come into your mother's room with you, are you out of your mind? She'll hate me! I can't- you can't- what are you thinking, Draco? No!"

"Hey," he said, turning to face her completely, gripping her by both of her shoulders, "hey. First off, I don't think you understand just how out of it she _is_. She-" he broke off, grimacing, obviously struggling with his emotions for a moment. "She's lonely and confused, Hermione, she doesn't understand why I'm the only one who comes to visit her anymore, she doesn't understand where my father is, or- look, I'll level with you, when she was herself she _would_ have hated you, I'm not going to deny that, but that's not the person she is anymore, so just- I know you have this huge heart and I'm asking you to look past that fact, please. And second off- well, there is no second off, actually, but will you just give it a try, Hermione? If it doesn't work out we'll leave. Both of us."

"Draco, this could be a disaster. You love us both, I know, but that doesn't guarantee we'll get along with each _other_. If this goes off badly, it could end up tearing you apart."

"I know," Draco said quietly, "but I don't think it will. She's desperate for company, Hermione, you have no idea. Just give it five minutes? Please?"

Hermione sighed. This went against all her better judgment, but… but she couldn't say no to Draco when he went out on a limb like this, opened himself up to her, made himself vulnerable. It was something he was just learning to do, and it was clearly still difficult and painful for him, and… and she just couldn't refuse him when he used the word 'please', awkwardly, as if it were a word in a different language- a language in which he was almost, but not quite yet, fluent.

"All right," she said, "five minutes, we'll see how it goes."

She was too wrapped up in her own nerves to even take note of the rest of their walk to Narcissa's room. It seemed that in the next instant they were simply _there_- standing outside a door that was in most respects an ordinary hospital door; of normal height and width, painted the same sterile white as all the other doors in the corridor- but this particular door was made rather conspicuous by the extremely fancy, raised golden letters, set into it at just about eye level, that read NARCISSA MALFOY in an elegant, flowing script.

Hermione glanced up at Draco- tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage it- and took a deep breath as Draco pushed an ornate little key into the lock. The door swung open and, with Draco's arm still snug about her shoulders, the two of them stepped inside.

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(A/N: well, I know this chapter was supposed to go on to include the trial as well, but the hospital scene just got away from me- I'd had no idea it would end up going that long; long enough to make a respectable chapter in and of itself. I'd thought I could deal with Hermione and Harry's confrontation in a paragraph or two and then move right along, but in the end it demanded much more attention than that, and after all, that's only fair. Poor Harry is such a good guy, but man is he hurting right now. Will he come out of it if Hermione needs his help? Dun dun dun… Anyway, the good news is that the trial scene is mostly written already and so my next update should come sooner than this one did.)


	21. Chapter 21: The Trial

It never bothered Narcissa Malfoy that her front door now opened out onto a sterile white hospital corridor, because Narcissa Malfoy never bothered to open her front door. It was such a terribly plebian thing to do, to open one's own front door- what on earth were house elves for if not to scurry about performing just such menial tasks as that?

They answered the doorbell when it rang, and even in such cases as this, when all Narcissa heard was a key turning in the lock, and so knew that it could only be her husband or her son, she would send Peepsy, her personal favorite, and come to think of it, the only elf she could even seem to _find_ lately- to show whomever it was into her private sitting room. This was what she did now, with a wave of her hand, not rising from the small table set for two that Draco had vacated several moments before. He'd said he'd be right back, and so she was reasonably sure it was Draco that had just let himself in.

A small frown creased her brow. Draco came and Draco went- ever the dutiful son, he visited her nearly every day. But Lucius- where was her husband? Draco had told her that he'd gone off on an extended hunting trip with several friends, but… somehow she was sure he'd never left her for this long before. Then again, her memories seemed rather hazy and unreliable lately… and she couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was something terribly wrong she just _wasn't putting her finger on_…

She glanced down at her wedding ring; the sight of it, as always, soothed her. Nothing could be wrong with her Lucius so long as the stone in that ring was sound. And it was; as clear and sparkling as ever. Allowing herself a small, inward sigh of relief, Narcissa turned her elegant, ice-blonde head toward Peepsy, who had just entered the sitting room to announce Draco's return- "and Mistress," the elf added, a tad more nervously than usual, "Master Draco is bringing a guest with him."

Narcissa sat up straighter, instantly more alert than she had felt in days. A guest- well, this _was_ unexpected. For Draco to arrive alone, then leave and return with a guest once dinner was already underway- it was thoughtless and inconvenient and she wanted to be irritated, she really did, but… on the other hand, it had been so long since she'd had a guest. She felt a little thrill of excitement run through her.

"Well, what are you waiting for, Peepsy?" she snapped. "Show them in and set another place, for Merlin's sake!"

The elf rushed to do her bidding, and a moment later Draco appeared in the doorway of the room with a young woman on his arm. This surprised Narcissa enormously. She hadn't seen her Daughter-in-Law in quite a while, leading her to suspect that there might be some sort of "trouble in paradise", for all that Draco denied it- but she was relatively sure that Pansy had not looked like this.

Then again, what other young woman would Draco bring to dinner with his mother?

She rose to her feet and came around the table to greet them. "Pansy, dear," she said, frowning slightly, "what on earth have you done with your _hair?_"

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Surprisingly enough, the visit actually went fairly well. Draco sat his mother down and told her that Pansy had had to leave, suddenly and indefinitely, due to pressing health reasons (and there was truth to that statement, wasn't there?) and that this was, in fact, his close friend Hermione. He left it at that.

Narcissa, for her part, might have been inclined to be rather more suspicious and less welcoming, had Hermione not been so obviously and visibly distressed. But the fact was that Hermione, still fresh from her encounters with Harry and Rita, each of which had been difficult, to say the least, in its own way, was- as Draco himself had observed- flushed, disheveled, and puffy-eyed from crying… and Narcissa responded to this as many a mother would; with immediate warmth and concern. She had, after all, been sorely lacking in anyone to fuss over for quite some time now.

It was true that, had she known Hermione's true circumstances, she _would_ have looked down on her as something barely human- perhaps a notch above a house elf- and certainly _not_ fit company for her son. This was how she'd been taught to think all her life, first by her parents and then by her husband, and she didn't know how to think any other way. Among her own family and friends, however, once etiquette and protocol had been dispensed with, she was perfectly capable of being a caring and demonstrative woman- and it was this side of her that was brought out now, by the sight of this pretty young woman (who, being a friend of her son's, must obviously be a quality person) so deeply shaken and unhappy.

"Darling, whatever is the matter?" she exclaimed, taking Hermione from Draco by the hand and leading her, surprised but unresisting, over to a nearby chaise. Narcissa sank gracefully onto the soft, velvet upholstered piece of furniture, pulling Hermione with her- then, the silk robes she had donned for dinner with her son rustling faintly, leaned toward her strange new guest and gently reached up to frame Hermione's face with both her hands.

"You really are quite pretty, aren't you?" Narcissa murmured, moving her cool, elegant, long-fingered hands to the waterfall of Hermione's dark hair, gathering it loosely, pushing it back and up, playing. "Your hair is phenomenal, darling; many witches would _kill_ for hair this lush. It just needs a little care. But you shouldn't cry in public, love; it turns your complexion all blotchy… and you don't want that, not when you've such beautiful skin. It's positively your best feature!"

She turned abruptly to her son, who was watching all this with his mouth slightly agape. "Draco, where are your manners?" she demanded, "can't you see this young woman is distraught? Offer her your handkerchief at once!"

Though Draco snapped immediately to attention, it was Narcissa to took the handkerchief from his hand an instant later; Narcissa who dampened it in a pitcher of ice water that stood on the coffee table, and began gently dabbing Hermione's hot-flushed face with it. "You're a little warm, dear," she commented as she did so. "You should let my son have a look at you. He's medically trained, did you know that?"

A second later, Hermione was sobbing again.

She just found herself completely overwhelmed by the situation- by the warm reception she'd received, so very different from what she'd been preparing herself for- by the concern in Narcissa's eyes, the gentleness in her hands, the mannerisms she shared with Draco- that Draco, in fact, must have picked up over his lifetime from _her_- the fact that she had a scent about her which was distinctly reminiscent of Hermione's own mother's favorite perfume. And the pain of losing Harry- his friendship as well as his love- was still right there on the surface- so new, so _raw_, as Harry himself had said- and all these things, combined, pushed her right over the edge- and now she was embarrassed, too- she'd known Draco's mother for a sum total of about five minutes and here she was, breaking down entirely on the woman's chaise lounge- and so she buried her face in her hands and tried to swallow back the tears, but all she accomplished was a heart-rending, choked sort of weeping.

Narcissa looked up at Draco, eyes wide with alarm. "Draco, there is something terribly the matter here! What on earth is going on?"

Draco dropped to one knee beside the chaise which held the two most important people in his life. He managed, somehow, at the same time, to lean into Hermione, offering her his shoulder to dry on, and also tilt his head toward his mother, muttering, "she had to break off her engagement today, mum. It's been-" his lips twisted down, briefly, in a frown- "difficult for her. Much more difficult than I think she anticipated. It's why I brought her here. I don't think she should be alone."

"Merlin, no!" Narcissa breathed in agreement. "Why didn't you say something before? Honestly, _men_. Sometimes I wonder what happened to the sense God gave you, Draco. Shouldn't be alone, indeed! You don't say?"

Draco smiled a little into the tumult of Hermione's hair. That sudden hint of sharpness in his mother's tone- it was like a brief, yet powerful, little snapshot of the mother he'd known all his life- and lost when his father had died, and confusion had descended on her for so much of the time.

Narcissa, for her part, wrapped one arm around her son and the other around Hermione- (the poor, poor _thing_- a broken engagement, such heartache- distraught, did Draco say? No, _really?_)- lowered her head until her lips were practically brushing the dark-haired girl's ear, murmuring soothingly to her; a low, meaningless, reassuring stream of words.

"It's all right, sweetheart, it's okay… I know it hurts, but it will get better, you'll get past this, wait and see. And Draco's here for you, I can see he cares about you. He'll look after you and so will I- you're welcome here anytime, day or night, love, we're both here for you, we're here. We're here…."

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In the corridors, Rita prowled, searching diligently for any trace of Draco or Hermione. She hadn't become the mega-successful reporter she was by ignoring her instincts… and her instincts were _screaming _at her now. There was something going on here- for two people who had hated each other as long and as fiercely as Draco Malfoy and that little Granger trollop had, the exchange she'd just witnessed between the two of them had felt… off, somehow. Lacking. There was a story here, she just knew it. There was a story, and it was _big_. And Malfoy, damn him, had merely been deflecting her from it when he had escorted her away. He'd told her _nothing_ of any import regarding his trial, and had left her right next to the front desk, under the baleful, hawk-like glare of that _bitch_ of a receptionist. It had taken some doing to get past _her_ again, and that was the truth. Bloody traitor, that's what Malfoy was, protecting that uppity little mudblood from her- and after all the lovely, glowing things she'd written about him and his family, their charitable contributions, the wedding. Well, she wouldn't paint such a pretty picture of him in the future, that was for damn sure.

And there was a story here, she just knew it.

So in the corridors, Rita prowled.

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She had not managed to uncover the story by the start of the trial. By the time the trial was nearing completion, however, Draco and Hermione's involvement had become common knowledge. And for the wizarding world's now-most-infamous couple since a beautiful young witch from a prominent family had publicly wed a centaur in the year 1348, the fallout was enormous.

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Draco sat ramrod-straight in the defendant's chair, eyes forward, face like stone, giving no satisfaction whatsoever to the dozens of people who crowded the Ministry courtroom, most of whom bore Draco no love, and would have given an arm and a leg to see a single crack appear in his façade of icy composure.

Rita Skeeter, for example, had a prominent seat in the press section and was dictating to her Quick Quotes Quill in a fast and furious whisper- and her remarks about Draco, if her previous day's article in the _Prophet_ was anything to go by, were far from kind. Hermione, where she was seated in the gallery, in a choice spot that allowed her to catch Draco's eye every now and again and give him a discreet nod of support, was having a hard time restraining herself from physically lunging at the detestable woman. _Goddamned social parasite,_ she thought furiously- and that was a strong testament to just how angry she _was_, because it was not normally in her straight-laced nature to swear, even mentally. But when she thought of that article Rita had penned months ago about Draco's wedding to Pansy- the fawning praise the woman had lavished on him back when the Malfoy family's fortunes had been high- the hypocrisy was nearly enough to choke Hermione in her seat.

Though generally a kind person by nature- kind to a fault, as most of the house elves on staff at Hogwarts would attest, Hermione seriously regretted ever having freed Rita from that glass bottle back in fourth year. She would like to have forced her back into it right there in the courtroom, she reflected, as she ground her teeth in silent, impotent rage and dug her fingernails into her palms nearly hard enough to draw blood.

And believe it or not, Rita wasn't the worst of it. No, the worst of it was the two-person team that was prosecuting Draco on behalf of the Ministry; Percy Weasley and one of the last people Hermione had _ever_ wanted to see again in her life- she'd hardly been able to believe her eyes when the woman had walked into the courtroom (seeking out Hermione amongst the crowd and giving her a look of pure, undiluted venom as she did so)- Marietta Edgecombe.

Suffice it to say, there would be no quarter given here; no mercy shown. These two were bureaucrats to the very bottoms of their stiff-starched, paper-pushing souls, interested only the letter of the law- deplorable cowards, in Hermione's opinion, who hadn't fought in the war, preferring to hide behind bureaucracy and red tape- but who were more than eager to strut their stuff in the public eye, puffed up with self-importance, now that the danger had passed. She compared them mentally to Dolores Umbridge, that nightmare-come-to-life from her fifth year in Hogwarts (the same year Marietta's abiding resentment toward Hermione had been born, as a matter of fact.) Harry had confided in her once that it had been during that same year that Dumbledore had told him people couldn't be neatly classified as either _Good_ or _Death Eaters_- there were people out there who didn't fit either category. Umbridge had been one such person. Percy and Marietta were two more examples, cut from the exact same cloth. They had certainly never been Voldemort-supporters, but neither were they good people. Of this, Hermione was positive.

And if her thoughts toward Marietta were unkind, the young prosecutor more than returned the favor. In fact, a large part of her prosecution strategy hinged on demonizing Hermione to all present in the courtroom. After all, the binding spell between Draco and Hermione had become common knowledge through the testimony of Dumbledore and Snape, and then of Draco himself who, preternaturally calm and unruffled on the stand, had insisted once again, as he had first done to Ron mere hours after the final battle had ended, that he had performed the spell as a last resort to save Hermione's life.

"Because you _love_ her," Marietta had sneered, rolling her eyes. _As if a proven Death Eater were capable of such a thing as love,_ her expression had said. _As if the woman who broke the heart of Harry Potter were capable of loving in return._

It was this fact that Marietta had returned to time and again in her prosecution; Hermione's "betrayal", as Marietta put it, of the wizarding world's best loved hero since Gordric Gryffindor. The young prosecutor knew that Draco's best defense- his _only_ defense, really- lay in the fact that he had saved that hero's best friend and erstwhile fiancée from certain death during the battle- so while Percy laid the groundwork for the case in his dry, methodical, detail-oriented way, droning on about Dark Marks and Death Eater initiations (only Percy, who had all the charisma and oratory skill of Professor Binns, could make these things sound boring), ascertaining from witness after witness, and indeed from Draco himself- who admitted it freely, emotionlessly, showing neither pride nor remorse- that he had indeed been a loyal follower of Voldemort, right up to the final battle, it fell to Marietta to play on the emotions of those present.

By far the prosecution's biggest dilemma was the binding spell- the fact that any punishment imposed on Draco would automatically be imposed on Hermione as well. So the strategy Marietta devised was to attempt to eradicate any sympathy whatsoever that the court might feel for Hermione. Percy's job was to convince those in power that Draco deserved to be punished. Marietta's appeared to be to convince them that there was nothing wrong with punishing Hermione right along with him; that, indeed, she deserved it too.

And, alarmingly, her strategy seemed to be working. It was the simple fact that Marietta so clearly and fervently believed what she was saying about Hermione that was causing others in the courtroom to begin believing it as well. Hermione could definitely feel a change in the atmosphere- a growing hostility toward her, as well as Draco. The situation was not good. As the prosecutors argued for a life sentence in Azkaban for Draco's crimes (pointing out magnanimously that Hermione need not occupy a prison cell; the binding spell allowed for her to be up to two hundred meters away from Draco without any ill effects, so she could be housed in, say, a disused guard's cottage), Hermione took a page out of Draco's book and squared her shoulders, hardened her countenance, sat up a little straighter, refusing to yield to Marietta's hatred, her venomous words; refusing to be cowed despite the fact that there was no one in the courtroom to whom she could turn for support, save the accused, who had more than enough on his own plate at the moment and to whom she was forbidden to speak during the proceedings anyway. She was alone in increasingly unfriendly territory.

She found herself wondering how Marietta had finally managed to clear her face of the telltale word, _SNEAK_, with which it had been emblazoned back at Hogwarts after the wretched girl had betrayed the DA and nearly got Harry expelled- and whether there was a way that she, Hermione, could revert the spell back to its original glory even after all these years. She vowed to herself that if she were condemned to live in some abandoned shack on Azkaban Island, allowed to visit Draco for a mere half-an-hour every day, the better to watch him waste away behind bars, it would become her life's mission to bring that _SNEAK_ back, and make it permanent.

Marietta, blissfully unaware of what Hermione was contemplating, was on a roll right now; it was two and a half days into the trial, and the prosecution was wrapping up their case. She was, in fact, making her closing statement.

"-_ripped_ out Harry Potter's heart and stomped it into the ground-" Marietta was raving, practically frothing at the mouth. "Yes, Mister Malfoy here saved her life, but only because the two of them were engaged in a lewd and vulgar affair. And no, she has committed no war crime that would condemn her to Azkaban- but this scarlet woman has committed a crime against _decency, _against _morality_, and so I ask you, is her entanglement with the defendant really grounds for letting him off the hook? For allowing him to walk away a free man after all the harm he caused during the war? Hermione Granger chose Draco Malfoy, a Death Eater and a murderer, over her own fiancé Harry Potter, hero to the Light- and so let her live with her choice, I say. Let her accompany him to Azkaban Prison _where he belongs_. Let her live on the island with her lover; it's a choice _she_ made, and I personally would consider it appropriate atonement for the crime she committed in throwing in her lot with the defendant; not a war atrocity, but a crime of the heart. _How dare she betray Harry Potter this way!_" Marietta paused for a moment to collect herself, breathing hard, then said simply, "Thank you. Mister Weasley will now make _his_ closing statement on behalf of the prosecution." She took her seat.

Hermione caught Draco's eye and was startled at what she saw- he looked so angry she was sure he was seriously contemplating yet one more murder. Though he'd been able to keep his emotions in check despite all the terrible things that had been said by the prosecutors about him and his family, it appeared that Marietta's verbal attack on Hermione- the latest in an unrelenting series of them- had very nearly pushed him over the edge. She glanced quickly around the courtroom, but no one else seemed aware of the deadly fury simmering just beneath Draco's deceptively calm exterior. She realized that it was, in fact, a sign of just how well she knew him that she could identify the- symptoms, if you will- that escaped everyone else in the room. His eyes were burning with a cold, grey fire; two fever-spots of rage blazing high on his pale cheeks, his jaw locked, body tight with the effort of holding himself in check. All for her. Nothing had moved him this way until Marietta had begun slandering _her_.

Percy was nearly done now, apparently about to rest the prosecution's case. Hermione hadn't been listening, so deeply engaged had she been in her study of Draco, but she tuned back toward him just in time to hear his closing sentence. Percy had refrained, during most of the proceedings, from speaking emotionally, preferring to state the facts and allow Marietta to be the one who got worked up- and hopefully worked up the courtroom along with her. Now that it had come down to the wire, though, Percy was pulling out all the stops- and, as he had demonstrated years ago in a letter to Ron, advising him to rethink his friendship with Harry Potter while still back in school, Percy could be quite vicious himself when he wanted to.

"-positive that the court must agree with me when I say there is only one place on earth Mister Malfoy belongs- Azkaban Prison. As to the question of Miss Granger, were she truly an innocent in this I would feel badly for her, but still I would press on to see that justice was done. She is _not_, however, an innocent in my opinion, but must be considered, through what has been demonstrated as her willing involvement with Mister Malfoy, to be his accomplice- and is therefore just as deserving of being sent to Azkaban as he is. He in a cell as he should be; she not imprisoned per se, but still far from the world of decent witches and wizards- a world to which she no longer belongs. I say, let Draco Malfoy go and _rot_ on that rock in the sea, and let him take his _little whore with him!_"

In this instant, two things happened simultaneously. Draco finally lost his cool altogether- it was hard enough to hear his Hermione slandered by another woman; he _would not _tolerate it coming from a man- and bolted to his feet with a shout of outrage, set to launch himself physically at Percy, an act which would certainly have sealed his fate- except that just then the door at the rear of the room burst abruptly open, admitting to court two people who had, until this moment, been conspicuously absent from the proceedings.

Ron Weasley and Harry Potter, to be exact.

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It was the first time Harry had made a public appearance, or indeed, left St. Mungo's, since having nearly lost his life in the battle. Ron was half-supporting him, Harry's arm slung over his best mate's shoulder. His other arm was in a white cloth sling, and bandages peeked out here and there from beneath his clothing. He looked wan and disheveled, his hair as much a catastrophe as ever, the jagged X which now marked his forehead (his final souvenir from Voldemort had been a second scar, one which criss-crossed the first) standing out against his pale skin, an angry crimson mark for all to see.

But if he looked weak, he also looked angry. No, scratch angry, he looked bloody _pissed_. Grim faced Ron looked none too happy either.

There was a moment of shocked silence, and then the murmurs and whispers and soft exclamations began- but Harry silenced them almost as soon as they started by shrugging away from Ron- staggering slightly but keeping his feet- and then proceeded to calmly walk the length of the room, his echoing footsteps the only sound as the assembled witches and wizards watched the greatest hero of their age with bated breath.

Even Rita Skeeter appeared for the moment to have nothing to say; her Quick Quotes Quill was balanced over her notebook, at the ready, but she was simply staring at him along with everyone else, goggle-eyed behind her gaudy rhinestone glasses. This was what absolutely everyone in the wizarding world had been waiting for- Harry Potter's return to the public eye, and along with him a hero of only slightly less renown- Ron Weasley, who, it was reported, had single-handedly fought off over a half-a-dozen Death Eaters while Harry had been engaged with Voldemort, in order to prevent them from rushing to their master's aid. Rita would spend the rest of her life kicking herself for not reacting quickly enough to snap a photo of the two of them there in the doorway, Harry supported by Ron.

She did, however, manage at length to pull herself together enough to grab her camera out of her bag and photograph what happened next; it had appeared as if Harry had been making straight for the front of the room, intending perhaps to approach the magistrate's bench- but such was not, it transpired, the case. When he came abreast of Draco he stopped, turned to face his schoolyard nemesis straight on, the two of them eye-to-eye, as Draco was still on his feet. They stood there for a moment that spun out and out, neither willing to yield the staring contest- black hair to white, green eyes locked on grey, one the hero of the Light, the other, until just recently, the brightest star of the Death Eaters' young elite. Enemies since the day they had met.

And yet there were similarities there as well- the two of them were just as alike as they were different, should one stop to think; alike in height and build, in the fact that they were each as adept in the air as they were on land, that each was an only child; had been his parents' sole hope for the future. There was their shared proclivity for sometimes breaking the rules as a means to an end, and not least of all, they were alike in their love of the same woman.

Who, having half-risen to her own feet in the gallery, was watching even more anxiously than the other witnesses to this strange scene, one hand rising to her chest in an unconscious gesture, coming to rest over her pounding heart.

And then Harry moved again, abruptly, causing several people to gasp reflexively- and many more to gasp a second later when it became clear what he'd just done- he had extended his right hand toward Draco; a gesture which made it patently clear that he wished to shake.

Draco was so shocked that he let his guard down for a moment, his pale eyes, which had been narrowed in suspicion and the anticipation of a new attack, growing wide with surprise. Still, he hesitated to take the proffered hand. He had offered Harry his hand once, and had been refused- publicly humiliated. Years of enmity had passed between that moment and this one, widening the gulf between the two young men all the time. Yes, the two of them had shaken hands a couple of times when they had been Quidditch captains opposite each other during seventh year, but that had been forced on them and, true to a long line of Gryffindor and Slytherin captains before them, they had used such opportunities solely to attempt to break the bones in one another's fingers. This was different; this was voluntary. Today he had the opportunity to do to Harry what Harry had done to him so long ago on the Hogwarts Express; leave him dangling in front of all these people. It was his first instinct and frankly, it was tempting, except- his eyes flicked over to the gallery where the woman he loved more than his own soul- the woman who had _saved_ his soul- half-sat, half-stood, chewing on her lower lip, watching this unexpected stand-off with dark, fretful eyes.

There was Hermione to consider. The way he acted within the next few seconds would have a profound effect on her. _He matters to Hermione_, Draco had said to Snape not so long ago, speaking of Harry, _so now he matters to me_.

It was time to put his money where his mouth was. So he took Harry's hand and he shook it, and that was when Rita's camera flashed.

Still with Harry's hand clasped in his, Draco pulled him a step closer. "What is this, Potter?" he asked quietly. "What's going on?"

"I'm saving your arse, Malfoy," Harry muttered. "You gonna let me?"

This hardly sat well with Draco. He didn't particularly care to be in _anyone's_ debt, much less Harry Potter's, but on the other hand, he was a realist. His situation was bad, and that meant Hermione's situation was bad.

"I don't suppose I have a choice," he said.

"Sure you do," Harry shot back. "You can go to Azkaban and take Hermione with you- that's your choice."

Draco gritted his teeth. "I'm never going to like you, Potter."

"Nor I you, Malfoy," Harry replied. "But we have to cooperate on this, don't we? For her." There was no need for him to elaborate- they both knew who he was talking about.

"Alright." Draco sounded resigned. "For her. And if you manage to get me out of here, then… then thanks."

"I'm not doing this as a favor. The way I see it, this puts us fair and square. It's repayment for you saving Hermione."

Draco flared a bit at that. Was Harry trying to re-stake his claim to her? "I didn't do it for you, Potter. You had nothing to do with it."

Now it was Harry's face that tightened in anger. "Be that as it may," he ground out from between his teeth, "it still affected me. I couldn't have borne it if Hermione had died. As angry as I was when I heard about the two of you, I've done a lot of thinking over the past few days and the conclusion I've reached is this- She is first and foremost my best friend, Malfoy; I still care deeply for her in that respect and I always will. I am not going to let her go to Azkaban for your crimes. So let me help you, you great sodding bastard."

Draco regarded him with deep suspicion. "Best friend only?" he asked at length.

Harry sighed resignedly. "I love Hermione enough to want only to see her happy, and I trust her judgment, Malfoy- it's never failed her before. If she truly feels that you are where her happiness lies, then I will support her in that, all the days of her life. That's what friendship _is._ All right?"

After another moment's consideration, Draco finally appeared satisfied. "All right," he muttered. "So work your miracle, hero-boy."

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And Harry did something that he had never before done in his life; dropping Draco's hand at last- (they had remained clasped together for the duration of their little muttered conversation, a conversation that everyone in the courtroom had been on the edge of their seats trying to hear, with no success)- he turned to address the front of the room; those who held Draco's fate, and by extension Hermione's as well, in their hands.

And with all the confidence of someone who knows damn well that he has, in the eyes of his community, passed from mere hero-status into the realm of 'living legend', he prepared to throw his name- and the weight that was associated with it- around, _big_ time.

Taking a deep breath, he began to speak.


	22. Chapter 22: Harry the Hero

"Permission to address the court," Harry said, but his tone made it clear that he was, in fact, stating his intent rather than asking anyone's permission; he was going to address the court, and the court was going to allow it, and every single person in the room was going to listen to what he had to say, and furthermore hang on his every word, all because of _who he was_ and what he'd so recently done- and he knew this, and accepted it as his due. That was what his tone of voice said.

"You may speak, Mister Potter," said the head of the panel of wizards that was in charge of determining Draco's fate.

Harry took a moment to collect his thoughts, running a hand through his hair. Then he began to speak in earnest, slowly at first, but picking up speed as he warmed to his theme.

"People have been speaking for me all my life, ever since I entered this world as a child. Speaking for me as though I had no voice of my own-" he sent a pointed look in the direction of the prosecutors- "or else twisting my words-" and now his eyes caught Rita's- "when I attempted to speak for myself. I never liked that. Who here would?" Jade eyes swept the packed room- "but as a child, I had little choice. My voice wasn't strong enough, it seemed, to be heard on its own. However- _it is now_. The era of others presuming to act as my mouthpiece ends today, right here."

"I assure you," spoke another member of the panel, "that we will give consideration to whatever you have to say. We are all in your dept, Mister Potter."

Percy, looking as if he'd just been forced to drink a glass of pure, undiluted lemon juice, abruptly thrust a finger into the air. "May I point out," he interjected, in his high-pitched, sanctimonious voice, "that this is highly irregular, and, in fact-"

"Percy," said Harry. He said it softly, but with such quiet force that it stopped Percy in his tracks, and riveted the entire assemblage back to the Boy Who Lived. "You've put a lot of effort into your prosecution, I see," Harry remarked then, almost conversationally. "You always were quite thorough- even back when you were trying to convince everyone that Voldemort posed no threat at all, and that I was merely a delusional nut-job for saying otherwise." A murmur ran through the courtroom. Percy opened and closed his mouth, fishlike, in indignation.

"I find it interesting, though," Harry continued, "that as thorough as you are in these matters, you never even attempted to ask _my_ opinion- or your brother Ron's, for that matter"- Ron had moved up the aisle now, to stand side-by-side with Harry again; he slung an arm around the dark-haired boy's shoulder- "on this prosecution, which would effectively make our best friend an exile for the rest of her life. Either of us would have been happy to speak with you on this matter, but I gotta say, Perce, it's been a devil trying to get in touch with you lately. Maybe it's just that we move in different circles, eh? For instance… we didn't see you anywhere during the battle, Percy. Where were you that day? Your father fought, all your brothers fought, even your mother and your little sister did their part, guarding the schoolchildren. And you were doing what, exactly?"

Again Percy opened his mouth; again Harry cut him off. "Hermione was out there fighting for what she believed in. So, for that matter, was Malfoy- even _he_ has that much over you. Malfoy and I may never be friends, but I understand him far better than I'll ever understand you, because whatever else you might say about him, he's willing to stand up for his convictions. You, Percy, are a coward plain and simple. And as such, you have _no right_ to be here prosecuting two people who _both_ have more honor than you." Harry's eyes narrowed to furious green slits. He'd heard, as he'd entered the room, the frenzied conclusion to Percy's closing argument, and he was _seething_ with anger. No one talked that way about Hermione, NO one- least of all a self-righteous, hypocritical twit like Percy Weasley. He lowered his voice nearly to a growl. "So why don't you back the hell off Hermione, and go find yourself a nice, quiet place in which to _grow a set and become a man!_"

"Yeah," Ron added then, breaking into the stunned silence which now pervaded the room, "and when you're done with that, go on and give mum a call, won't you? She cries herself to sleep every night over you! She was able to deal with all the rest of us fighting in the war, better than she can deal with your betrayal. She doesn't know what to do, blames herself, says she must've done something wrong. You're driving her into an early grave!"

Percy was now positively crimson; he had just been completely taken to task, emasculated, scolded like a child, and had extremely private family issues aired like so much dirty laundry, in front of dozens and dozens of people, many of whom were his Ministry co-workers and acquaintances; people with whom he was in close contact on a daily basis. How would he ever live down this shame? And he hadn't even time to gather his wits about him and begin defending himself, before Harry had moved on- just _dismissed_ him like that and moved on- to Marietta.

Who, for her part, cringed back a little the instant Harry's eyes lit on her, his outrage radiating off him now, in nearly tangible waves. If the tongue-lashing Percy had just taken was anything to judge by, she could guess what was coming and it wasn't good.

She guessed rightly.

"Marietta," Harry said. Unlike Percy, she didn't attempt to speak in her own defense; merely tilted her chin up defiantly, apparently determined to weather the storm of Harry's wrath as best she could, in silence.

"I have to wonder at this strategy of yours," Harry told her, "clearing the way for Malfoy's conviction by destroying any chance of sympathy for Hermione. Destroying any chance of sympathy for Hermione by carrying on about this supposed betrayal of _me_. I've followed this trial in the newspapers the last few days; I know all about the things that are being said. Again, you claim to speak on my behalf, going on about Hermione's treatment of me- yet again, you never bothered to ask me what _I_ thought about the whole thing, did you?" He paused, shook his head. "And I must say, you've got some balls, Edgecombe- more than Percy, here, anyway- shouting about Hermione's so-called betrayal after what _you_ did to me back in school."

Another shocked murmur ran through the crowd. Rita looked positively _orgasmic_- this was absolutely the mother lode of sensational news stories playing out right here in front of her; the highlight of her career.

Harry let the whispers die down before continuing to address the now mutinous-looking Marietta. "Your betrayal of me in fifth year was the worst I've ever suffered in my life- not because we were particularly close, but because of how completely senseless and vicious it was, and the lifelong damage it could very well have caused. If you'd had your way, I'd have been expelled from school! And if that had happened, I think we would be living in a very different world right now. Because without the guidance of my last two years at school, and the additional training I received after Hogwarts, which I never would have qualified for had I been expelled, there's no way I could have held it together out there on the battlefield. Hell, I barely survived as it is. You gambled with a lot of peoples' futures that day, Marietta, and for what? Hm?"

Marietta appeared determined to pursue her course of defiant silence, for all that she was now as red as Percy. So Harry answered for her.

"I'll tell you what for; you did it for the golden opportunity to kiss Umbridge's arse, because she looked to be in a position of power. And I'll tell you something else- if things had gone the way you'd planned, and I'd been thrown out, and Voldemort-" (nine tenths of those present in the courtroom winced at the name, for all that it's owner was now dead)- "was alive and in power today, I'd bet every galleon I have that you'd be kissing _his_ arse with just as much enthusiasm!"

Marietta's face contorted at this; she finally managed a strangled, "how- _dare_- you?"

But if she was losing her temper, so was Harry. "How dare I? Because it's THE TRUTH!" he positively thundered. "It's the truth, Edgecombe, it's how you operate. You figure out where the power lies, and then you suck up to it! But I never would have known that about you if it hadn't been for Hermione, now, would I? What do you reckon, shall we tell these people the real reason you dislike her so much? It's not about anything she did to me, it's about what she did to _you_ all those years ago. You want to see Hermione in exile for the rest of her life because of a _personal_ vendetta- because she's the one who exposed you back in school, for the nasty little _SNEAK you are!_"

Marietta lost it. No one had ever spoken to her this way before- and the word 'sneak' would always incite a rather violent reaction in her. "You… you… _bastard!_" she choked out- then, to the astonishment of absolutely everyone present, threw herself at him and slapped him soundly right across the face.

The whip-crack sound of the slap, accompanied by the flash-and-click of Rita's camera capturing the moment for posterity, ricocheted around the courtroom, which had otherwise grown so quiet one could hear a pin drop. Harry stood his ground, staring levelly at Marietta; neither saying anything further- he'd made his point, thank you very much- nor giving up so much as an inch of ground. Marietta, for her part, staring at her handprint in red, blooming on his cheek, came to the sudden and career-shattering realization that she had just _slapped the Boy Who Lived_, the great hero of the Light, who was fresh from the hospital and barely able to stand upright, in full view of dozens upon dozens of people, inside a courtroom _during_ a trial she was prosecuting- a time and place where she was supposed to behave with the utmost professionalism and decorum.

She guessed- and again correctly- (her guesses were displaying a near-psychic accuracy today, it seemed)- that her time as a rising-star prosecuting attorney had just come to an abrupt and publicly humiliating end. Bursting into tears, she turned and fled the room.

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Harry turned back toward the front of the room, once again addressing the panel of wizards there. "I'm sorry to have created a scene," he said with remarkable calm, considering how he'd been shouting moments ago. "But I've had it with others putting words in my mouth; I won't stand for it anymore. The prosecutors for this case each have their own agenda, which has very little to do with seeing justice served. And there is no justice whatsoever in their proposal to convict Hermione right along with Malfoy. She's committed no crime; she fought in the final battle under the colors of the Order! Furthermore, she is my best friend and I am eternally in Draco Malfoy's debt for having saved her. Malfoy began the battle on the wrong side, that's true. And yes, I'm sure he did kill people. So did I. So did Ron here; so did many in this room. Tragic as it is, that's not murder, its war. And Malfoy changed his allegiance before the end of the battle; changed it in time to save an Order member's life at the risk of his own. I ask you to consider this carefully, before you pronounce sentence on him. And consider one more thing, too- whatever happens between Hermione and me-" his green eyes sought out her brown ones, held them- "that's between Hermione and me. It's no one else's business, and it's no one else's right to demand that she be punished for it. Especially since that's the last thing I want. I would never, ever wish her unhappy, or in harm's way. So, er," and now all of a sudden the hero façade was cracking and he was reverting into plain old Harry once more, as uncomfortable in the public eye as he had ever been, and tired, and- yes, hurt as well- "that's it, then. A life sentence in Azkaban prison should not be taken lightly. And no innocent person should ever be made to suffer through it. Hermione doesn't deserve that. Um, thanks."

He was leaning heavily on Ron again by now, having exhausted just about all of his reserves of strength. There was an empty bench nearby, and Ron made for it, taking Harry with him, but they hadn't made it two steps before Hermione was upon them, having bolted from her seat, unable to control herself a moment longer. She hurled herself into both their arms, almost knocking them over, and just like that the golden trio was reunited, in the midst of a courtroom full of by-now _completely _stunned onlookers; Hermione all flushed face and mussed hair and eyes spilling over with emotion, wrapping her arms around both of their necks, whispering words only they could hear, words of love and gratitude, no doubt; and then Ron and Harry were holding her back, hesitantly at first- Harry in particular looking as though he hardly knew what to do with her- but then tighter and tighter until it was almost a _fierce_ three-way hug, a display of friendship that had lasted them nearly half their lives, and Hermione was pulling their heads down until all three foreheads clunked together, brown hair mixing with red hair mixing with black.

Silver hair stayed at a slight distance, watching these carryings on with a mixture of envy and deep relief, as Rita's camera clicked and flashed, clicked and flashed.

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"We have come to a decision regarding the consequences of Mister Malfoy's actions prior to and during the Great Battle," the head of the panel stated gravely, regarding Draco where he stood, stoic and expressionless, ready to hear his fate, "and make no mistake, we feel that consequences _are_ in order here."

This provoked no visible reaction from Draco, but there were others in the courtroom whose emotions were more transparent than his. Percy, for one, where he stood now as the sole representative of the prosecution, straightened up and preened a bit, hope restored that he had made his case after all; Hermione, back in her place with the spectators, now with Harry and Ron beside her, gave a tiny, wounded gasp and tilted her chin up a little higher, determined to be strong like her lover, but visibly devastated nonetheless- Ron wrapped one arm around her and pulled her tight to his side; Rita sat forward and licked her lips in anticipation- she hoped the sentence was harsh if for no other reason than it would take that little Granger bint down a peg or two, and how Rita would _love_ to witness that- but no matter what the sentence was, it would be an absolute goldmine for _her_, and that was the important thing.

Everyone else in the room waited with bated breath.

After a dramatic pause to let his words sink in, the head wizard continued. "We have, however, given careful consideration to the words of Mister Potter, and have found them to contain both wisdom and truth. We could not in good conscience send an innocent person to Azkaban Prison, and Miss Granger _is_ an innocent party here. The decisions she has made regarding her love life, however ill-advised-" (Hermione stiffened and gritted her teeth- of all the arrogant, judgmental things to say, who did he _think he was_-) "do in no way justify a sentence of life-imprisonment; and since there is, as we are all now aware, an irreversible binding spell between Miss Granger and the defendant, we cannot impose such a sentence on him without condemning her to the same fate. Moreover, we do believe that his decision, in the heat of battle, to forsake the Death Eaters and save Miss Granger's life was a sincere one, and not, as some would have us believe, merely a last-ditch effort to avoid a prison term. In defending her from other Death Eaters and carrying her to safety, he did much to mitigate his previous sins. Therefore, our sentence is this; Mister Malfoy is to submit to a year of house arrest, at Miss Granger's address in Hogsmeade Village, beginning at eight o'clock this evening. Records show this property to consist of a three-bedroom cottage with a small garden; under no circumstances is it to be magically enlarged or otherwise improved until the sentence is complete. He will be allowed to leave the grounds of his home for one hour per week, to apparate directly, and _exclusively_, to St. Mungo's hospital for the purpose of visiting his mother, who is a long-term patient there. In addition, he will be fined a sum of five million galleons, which will then be placed into Hogwarts scholarship funds for the orphans of this war and other deserving students."

The head wizard paused again, and looked around the room. The only sound was the furious scratching of Rita Skeeter's quill. Finally, "that will be all," he said. "Mister Malfoy, it is now-" he glanced down at his pocket-watch, then back up at Draco, who met his eyes with a steady, slate-grey gaze- "half past two in the afternoon. That gives you five and a half hours in which to settle whatever of your affairs need settling before your sentence is imposed. This will include, of course, paying your fine; a cursory examination of recent Malfoy financial records suggests to this court that you should be capable of paying it immediately, and in full. You will not want to be caught outside your home past eight o'clock tonight, so I suggest you get on with it. This court is now adjourned. Good day."

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(A/N: Hey, will you allow me to pimp a new fic to you? If you're still reading, I'll take that as a yes! I just got through participating in another D/Hr fic exchange- two of my previous fics, "What a Difference a Night Makes" and "The Reason" were written for similar exchanges in the past- so now I have a new fic up, chapter 1 posted today! The fic is completed already, and successive chapters will be posted every single week, Thursday night / Friday morning over the next month or so- so no long waits! It's called "A Lovely Delirium", and it has sort of a fun action/adventure theme. Check it out? You'd make me very happy! BTW- there are a ton of really high quality D/Hr fics archived over there at the exchange site, so email me if you want the link.)


	23. Chapter 23: Wandtip Wedding

(A/N: This is the last real chapter- see if you can spot the tribute to one of my all-time favorite movies, "Love, Actually". It's not a direct quote, but its close!)

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The courtroom emptied slowly, until only four people were left; Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Draco. Everyone else had filed out after the sentence had been pronounced, Rita going last, reluctantly, obviously hoping for the opportunity to interview at least one of the four young people, if not more. In the end, though, she'd been ushered out by security personnel in deference to a very pointed head-jerk from Harry. Hermione had to wonder at the horrible woman's audacity, to think for a single moment that even one of them would have granted her a statement. Three of them had hated her for years, and now Draco, after the things she'd written about him over the course of the trial, loathed her with a passion that fully matched, if not exceeded, that of the others. To think she could have gotten any of them to say word one to her was sheer idiocy.

Apparently, however, her eternal journalistic optimism had demanded that she try. She had not been happy about going.

What mattered, though, in the end, was that willing or not, she had gone.

Now the courtroom was quiet and still.

The moment the door shut after the protesting Rita, Hermione rose from her place in the gallery and practically _flew_ to Draco's side. He was still in the defendant's chair, and as soon as the door had clanged shut he'd braced his elbows on his knees and dropped his face into his hands, silver-white hair spilling through his fingers as he breathed a deep, shuddering sigh of relief. It was the sort of emotional reaction he'd refused to allow himself for the duration of the trial- now that he was finally alone, or nearly so, he could let it out at last. He could drop his guard and allow the reality of his sentence to sink in.

His sentence.

Hermione's mind was racing over the implications of it as she reached him, throwing herself to her knees in front of him and reaching up with both arms, to catch his face between her hands and pull it down until their foreheads were pressed together, reminding him, physically, that there was no reason for him to hold himself that way when she was there to do it for him. He slid out of the chair then, folding to his knees beside her, wrapping her in his arms and dropping his head to her shoulder as she did the same. There on the floor of the near-empty courtroom they clung to each other, allowing the fear that had lived in them over the past several days to finally wash away.

Hermione found herself literally shaking in the aftermath of that fear.

No Azkaban. Oh thank God, thank Merlin, thank _Harry_, no Azkaban.

A single year of house arrest, as opposed to a lifetime in prison; it was a far better outcome than she had dared allow herself to hope for. She would have access to most of the village herself; after all, _she_ wasn't under house arrest, and there was a certain distance she could safely stray from Draco, and still be within the bounds of the spell. And Draco would be able to continue visiting his mother, albeit only on a weekly basis. Altogether, to say that the sentence had come as an enormous relief was something of an understatement.

But Merlin, was she tired. Just- utterly drained.

She felt boneless. Watery- like she'd barely be able to stand up. The trial had taken an immense toll on her; she could only imagine what it had been like for Draco. To have been the one in that defendant's seat- and now to owe the court's leniency, and his relative freedom, to Harry's intervention- she knew it had to be a very tough pill for him to swallow.

"Draco?" she murmured into his shoulder. His arms around her tensed, but other than that he gave no response. It was clear he didn't want to talk at the moment. Not about the trial, or the future, or _anything_.

"Okay," she whispered. "It's okay. I love you. I love you."

He just held her tighter.

There was no telling how long the two of them might have stayed that way, but a moment later Ron was standing over them, clearing his throat rather uncomfortably.

"C'mon, you two," he said, sounding supremely awkward, "time's passing, and there are things you need to do before eight o'clock, aren't there?"

Hermione pulled in a last, deep, unsteady breath, inhaling Draco's scent there where his shoulder met his neck… then pulled away and raised her head. Ron was right. This day was not yet over, and time was now at a premium. There were things to be done. Ron offered her his hand and she accepted it; he pulled her easily to her feet, and into a strong, if brief, hug.

"I still don't understand, Hermione," he said quietly, as Draco got to his feet behind her, "but God help me, I'm working on it. I'm working on it."

She tried to smile. Merlin, even her _face_ was tired. "Thanks, Ron," she said quietly, "I mean- for coming here. For everything."

"Let those bastards send you to rot on that godforsaken rock? Not a bloody chance- not while there's breath in my body. But let's go, all right?"

She nodded dully. Then, glancing about the room, "where's Harry?"

"He stepped out when you… well. Erm. Hermione, you have to realize, he's trying to understand too, but it's even harder for him than for me. He's… he's really-" Ron broke off, ran a hand through his coppery hair. When he spoke again, it was obvious that he had decided _not_ to continue what he'd been about to say. "He's probably just out in the corridor," he said, somewhat lamely.

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Harry was indeed in the corridor just outside the courtroom. He was standing with his back to the door as the other three came out, leaning his arm against the cool stone wall, and his forehead against his arm. He looked as utterly exhausted as Hermione felt- as though, were the wall not there to support him, he would collapse- yet there was a certain tension to him as well; both his fists were clenched.

It hurt Hermione's heart to see him that way. And to know, inescapably, that she was responsible- not for the exhaustion, perhaps, but for the tension, and for the fact that he couldn't look at her for longer than a couple of seconds, had fled the room when she'd dashed to Draco's side.

She wanted nothing but for things to go back to the way they had been between Harry and her- the easy camaraderie that they had shared for years and years. She wasn't naïve enough, however, to think that that could happen quickly or easily. It might never happen. It was altogether possible that she had broken her best friend's heart, and shattered his trust in her, irreparably. She found herself swallowing back a sob at the thought.

And she wasn't through hurting him yet. There was still the matter of returning the ring.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself to speak. Then, "can I have a moment alone with Harry?" she asked. She was relieved to note that her voice only shook a little. "Draco, you need to ask someone where you can pay your fine. It should be somewhere in this building. Go on ahead; I'll catch you up."

He shot her a quick, searching look from his slate-colored eyes; saw her resolve clearly reflected in her dark ones. Giving her a slight nod, he brushed the backs of his fingers gently across her cheek, and pressed his lips briefly to her forehead. Then he was off down the hall with a muttered, "let's go, Weasley."

Ron looked from Hermione to Harry, who hadn't moved an inch through all of this, and back again. The redhead's eyes were troubled, but there was nothing for it and he knew that- Harry and Hermione had to be allowed to hash this out. Sighing, he took off after Draco, catching him easily with his long-legged stride. Hermione watched them until they turned a corner and were gone, walking side-by-side, now, but with as much distance between them as the narrowish corridor would allow. Just watching them go like that was painful to Hermione- the space they kept between; that barrier, that distance- in reality it was no more than a few inches, but within those few inches stretched seven years of enmity, of distrust. Of hate. How would she ever bridge the enormous gap that existed between the love of her life, and her lifelong best friends?

Was it even possible?

She wasn't at all sure that it was. But she would try anyway. She would try with all she was worth.

First, though- Harry. God, what a mess she'd made _there_.

She swallowed and approached him, made to reach out and touch his shoulder. But Harry, sensing her encroachment on his personal space, turned to face her abruptly, before any contact could be made. His green eyes were dark and unfathomable to her. Not angry or hostile, just… closed off. She couldn't tell _what_ he was thinking, and that in itself caused her a fresh pang of sadness; those verdant eyes had always been an open book to her before.

"Harry," she said, her voice little more than a cracked whisper, "I… I just wanted to thank you again, in private. You don't… you can't know what it means to me that-" she paused. Regrouped. "This is the second time you saved me since I walked onto that battlefield, you know," she ventured. This, finally, provoked a reaction in Harry- his brows furrowed, puzzled. Still, he didn't say anything. Merlin, he wasn't making this easy. She reached deep into her pocket- she'd been carrying Harry's ring around every time she'd left the house since the time she'd seen him at the hospital, never knowing when she might stumble upon him again, intent upon returning it at the earliest opportunity; unlike many girls in her position, her honest and meticulous nature demanded that she give it back. When she pulled it out, Harry stiffened. She found it was easier to look down at the ring than up into his eyes as she continued.

She took a deep breath and blurted, "this saved my life. I thought you should know. I wasn't aware of it at the time, but- um- Draco told me later. He said that after I- after the spell was over, and I'd lost consciousness completely-" (Harry made a little hissing sound, just he'd just sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth; Hermione couldn't tell what it was in response to- the mention of the binding spell, or the thought of her, injured and passed out)- "there was a band of Death Eaters moving across the field, killing wounded Order members, and (here her voice trembled a bit) ran-ransacking their bodies. They spotted us. Draco had taken off his hood and he said they recognized his hair from far off. (Harry snorted.) They were making their way toward us, and… there were a lot of them and Draco was already weak from the spell- they would have killed me, Harry, he wouldn't have been able to stand up to all of them. So he transfigured this ring into a portkey, and… and it carried me to safety. It saved my life. Anyway, I just wanted you to know… before I gave it back… how much it meant to me… how much you _mean_ to me… and that I… I'm sorry I hurt you… I'll be sorry until my dying day. But I can't keep this, Harry. So, um… here?" and she held the ring out, offering it to him.

He made no move to take it. In fact, he made no move at all. The still silence stretched between them. Finally, Hermione looked up. Harry was watching her, just watching her, his face as impassive as when she'd approached him. Sighing unhappily, she reached out and clasped one of his hands in hers. He didn't resist. Turning it so his palm faced up, she dropped the ring into it, then covered his hand with her own, gently curling his fingers closed around it. Without another word, blinking hard to keep her threatening tears at bay, she turned away and fled down the corridor.

She only made it a few feet before Harry caught her up, grasping her shoulder from behind; stopping her, turning her. Her eyes flew to his face, and finally she saw something there. He appeared to be struggling against his emotions, but something was getting through at last. She couldn't put her finger on what it was, exactly, but just the fact that _something_ had replaced that blankness was a relief to her. _Anything _was better than that.

"Hermione," he said, and his voice was hoarse with emotion, "I want you to keep this," and he was pressing the ring back into her hand. She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already talking. "It was a gift, freely given, and it's yours to do with as you will- except return it. It serves me no purpose, and I would never give it away to another- it was made for you. Only you. Believe me when I say I have neither hope nor agenda in doing this… but this ring is yours. And besides-" here he tried a small smile, and nearly, if not quite, succeeded- "if it came in so handy once, who knows? Maybe it will again."

Hermione looked from his face down to the ring. It seemed to sparkle brighter in that moment than it ever had before- and then she realized why. It was the tears, coming at last. The ring doubled, then tripled, a blurry, wavering rainbow. She clenched her hand around it and thrust it back into her pocket. "All right," she choked out. It was all she could manage. She slammed her eyes shut; took one deep breath- another. "Harry… I…" it was no use. She couldn't think of anything else to say. She started to turn away again, but again Harry stopped her, this time gripping her gently but firmly by both shoulders.

"Hermione, listen. I meant what I said in court. I still love you as a friend. This other… thing… is superimposed on top of that, but our friendship- it's still beneath. I want to see you safe and happy, and if Malfoy can really give you that, then… then I suppose you have my blessing. I just… you need to give me time to work this out, though. I think-" his voice turned meditative now- "I think I'm going to travel, actually. Take a leave of absence from Auror training. They're bound to grant it to me, now. See some of the world. Maybe Ron'll come with. Yeah… I think that might be just what I need."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione cried, impulsively throwing her arms around him, overwhelmed with a combination of relief at his words, and guilt at the knowledge that no matter what he said, the real reason he'd be leaving would be to lick his wounds and get over her. And it would take time; she didn't doubt that. It would take time to pick up the pieces of this mess she'd made, and return some semblance of normalcy to their friendship. But at least this was a start.

This was a start.

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They caught up with Ron and Draco in the office where Draco was paying his fine; he was just signing a bank order allowing transfer of the funds directly from his Gringott's account. Hermione stayed with him for the twenty minutes or so it took to complete the transaction, while Ron and Harry wandered down the corridor together. The four of them met up again as Hermione and Draco left the office, (the junior Ministry official who'd collected the fine looking slightly shell-shocked at the number of galleons Draco had just signed away with very little display of regret), and collapsed to regroup on a wooden bench out in the hall.

"Is there anything else you need to do to get your affairs in order?" Ron asked Draco at length, checking the time. It was three-fifteen. Draco, who had leaned his head momentarily back against the wall, opened his eyes and frowned.

"I should see my mother," he said. Hermione, seated beside him, reached for his hand; laced her fingers through his. Ron noticed this, shot a look at Harry. But the dark-haired boy was looking away again.

"Nothing more here in the Ministry building?" Ron asked.

Hermione looked up at that- it seemed an odd sort of question to ask. Her suspicions were further aroused when she saw Harry look sharply up at Ron as well; a brief yet intensely meaningful look passed between her two best friends.

Something was afoot.

"No," Draco said slowly, his frown deepening, puzzled. Obviously he sensed something out of the ordinary as well. "Why?"

"Well," Ron said, suddenly appearing acutely uncomfortable, "it's just that… Harry and I, well, we…"

"We've reserved a Ministry official to marry the two of you this afternoon," Harry broke in abruptly.

Draco and Hermione's jaws fell.

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"Wh…wha…_Ron?_" Hermione sputtered, unable to compose a coherent sentence, such was the depth of her surprise. "Married…what…here…now…today?" She felt Draco squeeze her hand. He hadn't said anything yet.

"Well… yeah," Ron said, "we went down the hall to arrange it while you two were paying the fine. We think… Harry and I, that is-"

"We think," Harry interjected again, his green eyes narrowed now and leveled steadily on Draco, "that there's no _bloody way_ we're allowing you to just _shack up_ with our best friend for a year. Skeeter would have a field day with it… it would be all over the tabloids, and besides which, it's just not decent-"

"_Harry!_" Hermione exclaimed, "Skeeter will have a field day no matter what, because marrying me not a month after Pansy died wouldn't be decent either!"

"I could give a rat's ass about Parkinson," Harry growled, "_you're_ the one who's alive; you're the one whose honor I care about! Malfoy says he loves you and he always will- well, let's see him put his money where his mouth is!"

"Harry! I appreciate the thought, but I don't want a marriage that's coerced-"

"No," Draco said with quiet force, quelling Hermione instantly, "Potter's right." He turned to face her fully on the bench- they were still holding hands, and now he caught her other one too, so that both their hands were laced together. "He's right, Hermione," he repeated, looking straight into her wide, still-startled eyes. "We're going to live as a married couple from here on out anyway, thanks to the effects of the spell- why not make it official today? I'm not going to tolerate bloody parasites like that Skeeter bitch dragging your name through the mud anymore than they have already. Let them say what they want about the propriety of _my_ marrying again so soon- I agree with Potter, it's _your_ honor that matters. And besides all the practical reasons, there's this-" and never letting go her hands, he slid from the bench to land on one knee, before her on the floor- "I _want_ you to be my wife. This is not only about making the best of the binding-spell situation; I'd feel the same way if there was no spell. You're the one for me; I should have seen it from the start. I was an idiot, but if you'll let me, I'll spend the rest of my life making that up to you. I need you the way I need water, air and magic; I need you to live. Hermione Granger, will you do me the immense honor of becoming my wife today?"

She didn't answer right away. She just stared at him for a long, long moment, her lips parted in surprise, her eyes enormous. Finally, she gave a tiny, abrupt exhalation- a sort of reverse gasp- and pulled one hand away from him in order to raise it slowly, shaking, to cover her mouth, her fingers splayed up over her nose. Her eyes darted from Draco to Harry, who was looking away again, to Ron, who nodded slightly back at her. Turning back to Draco, she took her hand from her face and reached down to him, grazing her fingertips over his cheek, then up past his temple and finally tangling them lightly in his pale hair.

"I-" she whispered- "are you sure? You want this? You'd want it anyway? Even if things were… different?"

"I've always wanted it," Draco replied with quiet certainty, "ever since that day we spent in Hogsmeade- maybe even earlier than that. I was just too stubborn and too stupid to recognize my feelings for what they were… to admit to them, even to myself. But I want this more than anything, Hermione. Say yes?"

A short pause followed this. Then, "yes," she breathed, "oh, Draco. Yes!"

She barely had time to get the words out before she was engulfed in his arms, one of his hands buried in her hair and pressing her head into his chest with a fierce possessiveness that took her breath away. And it felt so right, Merlin, so right… the rest of the world and all the problems that resided therein; her strained friendships with Harry and Ron, her current unpopularity in the wizarding world, the year of house arrest looming over her head, the question of how she was going to approach her parents after today, to tell them that she had, for all intents and purposes, eloped- with someone _other _than the man they'd known to be her fiancé… faded in that instant- not vanishing entirely, but receding in size and importance so that they no longer threatened to overwhelm her, but became something more manageable- something she could deal with at a later time, just so long as she had Draco by her side, his arms around her as they were right now.

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The wedding took place three quarters of an hour later, in a small, tasteful chamber designated specifically for civil marriage ceremonies. There had been enough of a time lapse between Hermione's acceptance of Draco's proposal and the event itself for a few key people to be quickly notified; Snape arrived, to stand up for Draco, since Harry and Ron were really Hermione's representatives… and Dumbledore came as well- and not alone, either. Completely unexpectedly, he had in tow one beaming Ginevra Weasley, who carried a garment bag slung over her shoulder, and immediately grasped Hermione by the wrist, pulling her into a small antechamber with fifteen minutes to go before the wedding was to commence.

"Professor Dumbledore came and got me out of class," the redhead said breathlessly, "he said you're getting married today- right now! I brought you something to wear, and hair ornaments too-" she unzipped the garment bag and pulled a deep, forest-green dress robe from within. "They're throwing us a commencement ball this year, since the war is over. Mum sent me this to wear… I think it will suit you too." She held robe up against Hermione for a second, frowning thoughtfully as she took in the color of it against Hermione's skin and hair. Then she nodded. "Yes, this will do nicely. Go on, get into it so I can fix your hair!"

Ginny continued to talk as Hermione dressed, telling her about the festivities that had been abounding at the school, about her own fledgling romance with the Ravenclaw Head Boy, who would be escorting her to the commencement ball, about how all her family members had fared in the battle- Hermione hadn't been aware that Fred had been badly injured; George had carried his twin from the battlefield himself, and had refused to leave his side since. Things had been touch-and-go for a while, but now the mediwizards were predicting a full recovery. "Percy hasn't been to see him once," Ginny sniffed, "though everyone else has been pretty much camping out in his room. It's why Bill and Charley and George didn't attend the trial. And I wasn't allowed to miss classes… otherwise we'd all have been there to support you, Hermione. We all think Percy was way out of line." She turned serious eyes on Hermione. "None of us wanted to see you land in Azkaban, though mum is… well, she's a little disappointed at the turn things have taken, the big wedding canceled and all, and she's… well…" Ginny's voice turned apologetic- "she's rather indignant on Harry's behalf, actually… but she does care for you, Hermione, and she'll come around in time… I think."

She stood back in order to study Hermione, now dressed in the flowing green robe, appraisingly. "Nice," she said, nodding, "very nice. Now sit-" she took Hermione by the shoulders and propelled her toward the nearest chair- "so I can do something with your hair."

A few moments passed in silence as Ginny, now of a legal age to do magic outside of Hogwarts, charmed Hermione's hair into something resembling a wedding-appropriate style; nothing too elaborate, partially up and partially down, and studded all over with the hair ornaments the younger girl had brought- tiny, sparkling jewels; some clear, some deep green to match the robes, held in place by magic, glittering out from Hermione's thick, dark curls.

Finishing, Ginny stepped back and gave Hermione an appreciative once-over. "I knew these things would suit you," she said in satisfaction. "I only hope I'll look half so good at the ball!"

"Ginny, you're beautiful," Hermione smiled back, "outside _and_ in. Thank you so much."

The redhead waved away Hermione's words. "It's nothing," she said, "just- Hermione, tell me honestly and I'll never ask again, I promise- I know that your judgments are usually sterling, but- are you sure you're doing the right thing?"

Hermione lowered the hand-held mirror she'd been using to check her hairstyle- (it was another of the items Ginny had brought with her, for just that purpose, and was engraved, Hermione had noticed, with Molly Weasley's initials)- in order to meet the younger girl's frank gaze head-on. "I'm doing the right thing, Gin," she said quietly, but steadily. "It was the hardest decision I've ever had to make, but it's also the one I'm surest about. It's the right thing."

Ginny nodded; the two embraced; there was a knock on the chamber door; the ceremony was about to commence. Stepping back into the wedding chamber, Hermione glanced around at the small group of staunch supporters who had come to witness the event. Dumbledore, Snape, Ginny of course- Harry and Ron, and standing next to Ron, one arm linked loosely through his, Hannah Abbott- her other would-have-been bridesmaid.

Hermione smiled to see her there, and standing so close to Ron, looking so natural on his arm. This girl was _right_ for the volatile redhead- it was as clear and plain as day. Hermione wondered how she could have missed it back in school when they'd all been prefects together.

Then her eyes met Draco's, and everything else dropped away.

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(A/N: So... there will be one more chapter- well, really more of an epilogue- well, really more of a smutilogue, actually. I'm banking on people wanting to see a little more fluff at the end... and the, er, consummation of this marriage! ;-)

Now, a word about the next project I'm going to be working on; many of you know of Alex25, she's a terrific D/Hr writer on this site, and I know we have many readers/reviewers in common (if you haven't read her work yet, DO!) Well- she and I have started a new pen-name, "Kyra and Alex" (yes, we're wildly creative) and we're going to be co-authoring a story under the new name. I don't know exactly when the first chapter will be up, but it'll be within a few weeks, I think. She's taking the first chapter, I'm taking the second, she's taking the third, and so on. The thing that will make it fun an unusual for both us and the readers is that neither of us know what the other will write until it's done and published on the site. Once I read her first chapter, I'm going to have to pick up the ball and run with it, and wherever I leave the second one, she'll have to do the same... like a game. We're hoping this will keep things interesting for us _and _the readers. The only thing we've decided on definitely is the pairing (and I suppose in the interest of being fair to you all, I should disclaim that it is _not_ a D/Hr fic; I repeat, NOT a D/Hr fic. It _is_ a het pairing, though; not slash. And it is, of course, a Harry Potter fic.) I really hope, though, that some of you might give it a whirl anyway! So keep an eye out, okay?

Oh, the title of this chapter is a play on the expression "Shotgun Wedding", in which a young woman's male relatives ah… forcefully persuade, shall we say… a reluctant man into marrying her, usually to "make an honest woman" out of her if she's been impregnated out of wedlock. It's not entirely accurate in this case, as Draco was perfectly willing- eager, even- but it had good alliteration and I thought it sounded cute!

A hundred thank-yous to everyone who's read this fic! A thousand thank-yous to anyone who's reviewed! And a million thank-yous to those who've reviewed regularly! Your feedback totally makes my day!)


	24. EPILOGUE

(A/N: well here it is at last- the long awaited epilogue! I want to thank everyone who's stuck with me through this story- it's been a wild ride! I apologize profusely for the 3 month gap between chapter 23 and this; what can I say, other than my muse was finished with this story before I was! Anyway, I hope this modest little smutilogue doesn't disappoint. Now as for the term smutilogue, well as you've probably guessed, it refers to the presence of- c'mon, say it with me now- smut. It's not graphic or anything, but still, I'm doing my due diligence by mentioning it. So if you don't care for love scenes, or are not of an age to read them, consider yourself warned! And now, without further ado, I give you... the wedding night!)

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The ceremony had been short, simple, to-the-point. There had been no bells and whistles; no one to give the bride away, no honor attendants, no "Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today…", no long-winded, hand-written vows. There were just two people desperately in love, pledging to devote their lives to one another, surrounded by a small, yet strong core of friends who'd provide most of the outside contact the young lovers would have over the next, homebound year.

When the time had come to exchange rings, Dumbledore had conjured a pair of wedding bands out of thin air; two slim and simple circles of silver, each one a perfect fit for its intended finger. The entire wedding had lasted no longer that fifteen minutes, at the end of which- once they'd signed the registry along with two witnesses (Dumbledore and Snape had stepped forward)- the Ministry official who'd been presiding had announced that they were husband and wife, and that Draco could now feel free to kiss his bride.

From the Ministry, the newlyweds had apparated directly to St. Mungo's, to spend a precious hour or so with Narcissa before the house arrest went into effect. The older woman, in her now-standard muddled state, had nonetheless been intensely pleased to see them both. If she'd noticed the matching bands of silver on their fingers, she chose not to say anything; her son seemed happier than she could remember seeing him since his school days, as if the weight of ten worlds had been lifted from his shoulders... and her memories of her daughter-in-law were already fading like a dream. Who was to say for sure that Draco's wife hadn't always had hair this wild, dark and beautiful? And did it really matter _what_ color the girl's hair was, when her son looked at her that way- the very same way her darling Lucius had looked at _her_ when first they'd been married? And so what if she didn't recall her daughter-in-law's name being quite so long or _foreign_ sounding? Perhaps Draco had taken to calling her by her middle name, or some affectionate pet term with a special, private meaning for the two of them. Whatever the case, Narcissa could tell that Draco was elated- he was a man head over heels in love- and that was good enough for her.

When they'd arrived back at the cottage, Draco and Hermione had immediately encountered evidence that something was amiss- their plan of a cozy, fire-lit evening for two was not to be- or at least, not yet. The evidence took the form of bright lights blazing from every window of the little house- shadows moving about behind the curtains and window shades- sounds of music and laughter floating out over the small front yard- and one seriously hacked off Ronald Weasley, shivering and hugging himself for warmth, breathing out white puffs of frosty air, on the front stoop.

"What in the _hell_-" Draco began, but Ron cut him off, teeth chattering from cold.

"Your f-f-fucking house won't b-bloody well let me in, Malfoy!"

"Ron," Hermione exclaimed, "What on earth…"

"It was m-meant to b-b-be a surprise," Ron said, glaring daggers at Draco. "While Ginny was g-g-getting Hermione ready for the wedding, Harry and I went down the hall and flooed your elf. We told her to get the house ready for a little p-party. But when we got here, your _g-goddamn_ house wouldn't let me in, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Not even D-Dumbledore." The redhead stamped his feet, whether out of temper or simply in a further attempt to keep warm, it was impossible to tell. "Harry and Hannah have been taking turns waiting out here with me. I j-just sent Hannah back in. Too b-b-bloody cold for her. Well, are you gonna let me in or not, Malfoy?"

Draco looked as if his first impulse was to tell Ron to go bugger himself, but fortunately it was Hermione that spoke. "Pinky's in on this?" she asked, looking at the shapes of people moving beyond the drapes. "How many people are here, Ron?"

Ron's expression became, if anything, more mulish than ever. "Not gonna spoil the _whole_ b-bloody surprise," he snapped, through teeth now clenched against the cold. He shifted his gaze from Hermione to Draco, defiance sparking in his cobalt eyes. "Reckon you're just gonna haveta open the d-d-damn door if you want to find out!"

Now Draco really _was_ ready to tell Ron to sod the hell off, but he happened to glance at Hermione in the split second between opening his mouth and speaking. And he saw two things that changed his mind. The first was that her dark eyes were positively glowing with joy and anticipation, head cocked a bit to the side as she listened raptly to the muffled voices on the other side of the door- and the second was that her teeth were just beginning to chatter as well. She gave a little shiver. And Draco's priorities shifted in an instant. To hell with Weasley- he had to get his wife in out of the cold, this instant.

"I guess you can come in," he told Ron grudgingly. With a quickly muttered spell, he altered the wards to allow Ron back into the cottage. The door swung obligingly open, and the three entered together, Draco's arm slung over Hermione's shoulders, holding her close to the warmth of his body.

00000

Everyone who'd been present at the wedding ceremony was also at the cottage; a small, yet merry, wedding reception. In addition to Ron, Hannah, Harry, Snape, Ginny and Dumbledore, a handful more people had arrived- Fred and George Weasley- (the former heavily bandaged and unable to get around without assistance, but in his usual good spirits, grinning from ear to ear)- and- Hermione could scarcely credit her eyes- her _parents_. Dumbledore had arranged for this particular surprise while she and Draco had been at St. Mungo's. The Grangers were deep in conversation in a corner with Harry when the newlyweds entered the room- and, predictably, once the joyous greetings between parents and child had been dispensed with, they did express some concern over their daughter's sudden elopement with a man who was _not_ the fiancé she had recently introduced them to… a fiancé they had liked very much. But apparently Harry had had only good things to say to Hermione's parents about Draco, for Mr. Granger shook his hand warmly and Mrs. Granger threw her arms about his neck, exclaiming, "you saved my daughter's life! Oh thank you, thank you."

Dumbledore had brought Dobby and Winky down from the school to be of assistance to Pinky, and there was abundant food and freely flowing Butterbeer. The entire first floor of the house had been decorated with floral garlands and rose petals strewn about every available surface, and there was even a many-tiered wedding cake, proudly displayed on the dining room table. It was a nicer wedding reception than either Draco or Hermione had dreamed possible- especially for having been pulled together in so little time, and as a surprise no less. It was hours before the last guests trickled out, the mess was _Scourgified_ away, the parlor fire banked, and Draco was finally able to whisk a tired but radiantly happy Hermione into his arms and carry her bodily up the stairs.

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Draco lowered Hermione gently to the bed, treating her with a tenderness his blindly devoted late wife Pansy had never seen in him- a tenderness he had never seen in _himself_, until Hermione had come along and coaxed it out of him. It was nothing she had done purposefully, of course, by art or design- it was just who she was; _what_ she was; his perfect counterpart, this incredible being who brought out qualities in him that he had never even known he possessed.

Merlin, he'd have been lost without her.

His life would have been a wasteland, for all his money and privilege.

He made a quick, silent vow never to let a day pass without showing her in some small way how grateful he was to have her. When he thought about how close he'd come to losing her… it was almost too painful to contemplate.

"Draco?" Hermione's small, warm hand came up to cup his face, startling him out of this train of thought. He focused on her face below him, her tumultuous hair spread out about her on the ice-blue silken bedcover. Her head was cocked at a slight angle, the hint of a smile quirking her lips. "Where did you go just now?" she asked him. "Your eyes- they were miles away."

Draco gave his head the smallest of shakes, to clear it. Was he quite mad? He wondered ruefully- dwelling on things past when he had this vision of loveliness- his _wife_- reclining decadently beneath him on their bed? This was not the time to follow those dark and twisting corridors of his mind that would all, ultimately, lead him to the same place; the realization of what an utterly miserable bastard he would have been without her. He needn't ever worry again about what his life would have been without her. She was here. She was his. Forever. And it was high time, he thought, with a grin spreading slowly over his face, to consummate their love.

Hermione's brows drew together in slight puzzlement. "Dra-mmmph!"

He silenced her with a kiss, just as he had done all that time ago- a lifetime ago, it seemed- on a snowy, rock-strewn battlefield as she'd been fighting for her life. How different were the circumstances tonight. Now they had a lifetime stretching ahead of them, in which to love and cherish and explore one another… starting Right. This. Minute.

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"Are you ready?" Draco asked, voice hoarse as he held himself perfectly still above Hermione, jaw clenched, eyes a stormy grey, dark with desire. Dawn light was streaming in through the bedroom window, illuminating the rich wood of the bed frame, the luxuriously rumpled silk duvet, the hearth that contained the last embers of the night's dying fire.

The darkest hours of the night had passed as husband and wife had partaken of every decadence of the flesh imaginable- save one. The consummation of their marriage had yet to be completed; penetration had yet to be achieved. And Draco was in an agony of anticipation.

Yet he held himself back, poised just at her entrance, tormented by the thought of how badly he had hurt her that long-ago night in his room at Hogwarts.

Hermione moved her hands from where they'd been resting, lightly clenched, on his shoulders, bringing them up to run her fingers through his impossibly soft, sweat-dampened hair, then framing his face with a feather-soft touch.

"I'm ready," she breathed, and her eyes lent truth to her words. "I want to be all yours; every inch yours. Make that happen. I'm ready, Draco."

Draco's eyes were torn. He sucked in a ragged breath. "I don't want to h-" he began… but Hermione was having none of it; she was done with words. Her hands suddenly became insistent; nearly rough- winding her fingers around to lace together at the back of his head, she pulled him down- their lips crashing together in a heated, nearly frantic kiss.

At the same time, she brought up her legs in a swift, sure motion- wrapping them tightly about his waist. And in that instant Draco went from being poised just at her entrance, literally shaking in a fever-state of longing and anticipation, to being buried within her up to the hilt.

Hermione's head fell back, her back arching, lips parted- it was her turn to gasp. A series of little shudders wracked her body- pain? pleasure? Draco couldn't be sure. To tell the truth, he was nearly in pain himself- she was that tight. He buried his face in the junction of her shoulder and throat, groaning.

They stayed like that, without words, for a long moment; locked together, adjusting.

Then Hermione gulped in an unsteady breath and bit down hard on her lip.

Draco tried to form words- couldn't- swallowed- tried again.

"Have I hurt you badly?" he managed at last.

She gave her head a single, tight shake- which left him in some doubt. She was still biting her lip, eyes scrunched tightly shut. "God, Hermione," he groaned, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to be that- abrupt. I love you so much… so damn much, Granger, it _hurts_-"

"No." Her voice was barely a whisper. "That's not it. I think it's… it's the bond that's hurting you. I think… you're feeling what I feel. My pain."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because-" and here she opened her eyes; they were huge, dark and luminous, those eyes that were his world, his universe, his soul- staring directly up into his.

"Because I can feel your pleasure."

Even as she said it, Draco understood that it was true. Somehow the almost telepathic bond that had been born between them that night on the battlefield was conveying to each of them something of the other's physical sensation at the moment. It was incredible… almost unreal. And yet, in another, more immediate sense, it was the most "real" experience he'd ever had. This was a true joining of body, mind and spirit. This was love, and more than love… love almost in a celestial sense. He'd never imagined it could be like this- be this good. He reveled in it, even in the pain he felt- because he knew that he was lifting that pain away from the woman he loved, bearing it so she wouldn't have to, and filling the space it should have occupied with his own sensations of pleasure.

He kissed the place where he'd buried his face a moment ago; the place where her shoulder met her neck. He dragged his mouth up the column of her throat, along her jaw line, up to her ear, sucking on the lobe for a moment, making her shudder and gasp again- a long, hitching exhalation. He kissed her forehead, which tasted sweet with perspiration- one eyelid and then the other- the tip of her nose.

"So you feel… all right then?" he finally asked, in a ragged voice.

"Oh my God, yes," Hermione murmured, her lips moving against his mouth as he brought it down to hers- "It's just… it feels so… full. But I feel… good enough to burst. Merlin, Draco… what… are… you…?"

She didn't get to finish her question; he smothered her mouth with his own as he began to rock within her. There was no more need for words.

In this moment, their bond spoke eloquently enough.

00000

It was full-on morning when Pinky woke; she'd slept far later than usual, worn out from her hostess duties of the night before. But it wasn't the rich, glorious mid-morning light streaming through her lace-curtained window that startled the elf from her sleep, causing her to sit bolt upright, swing her feet over the edge of the bed so that they sank deeply into the room's luxurious, plush pink carpeting, cock her head inquisitively to one side; it was a sound.

Pinky listened hard.

Yes, there it was, all right- a dull yet rhythmic thumping sound as of- suddenly comprehension dawned in her overlarge eyes, and she blushed the deepest crimson a house elf was capable of attaining- a sound as of a heavy wooden headboard knocking repeatedly against a wall.

Now that she was paying attention, she could make out groans and muffled endearments as well.

Springing to her feet, she padded determinedly across her room to the peg-board where she kept her large, hodgepodge assortment of pink accessories. A moment's rummaging amongst them and she found what she was looking for; a pair of oversized, fluffy pink earmuffs. Jamming them onto her bat-like ears, she breathed a sigh of relief; the flush beginning to ebb from her cheeks.

But what to do now? She stood still a moment, feeling slightly lost. It didn't seem appropriate, somehow, to leave her room and start in on her normal morning chores with… with _that_ going on just down the hall.

Besides, she simply didn't feel like going straight to work today. After that miracle-party she had pulled off with just a couple hours' notice the previous night, she thought she might not go to work until _noon_. It was a sinfully delicious way to feel.

But then, how to pass the time?

Wandering over to her armchair by the window and conjuring herself a steaming cup of tea, she settled cozily down to watch the sun climb over the Hogwarts lake. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of something she had left abandoned on the small end table which stood beside her chair… it was her knitting needles, and a large quantity of soft, pink yarn. She hadn't been working on anything since she had finished the scarf that she had gifted to Hermione.

She picked the needles up, toying with them absently, letting her mind wander… but then, abruptly, her eyes came sharply back into focus as a thought occurred to her. She turned a little in her chair, looking meditatively in the direction of the master bedroom. Slowly, she peeled a single earmuff away from her head, and listened.

_Whump… whump… "oh Go-o-od, Draco…"_

Pinky let the muff snap back, cheeks burning once more.

But that was all right, for she had just hit upon something to do, to occupy her time as she whiled away the morning in her room. Eyes alight with newfound purpose, she conjured herself up just one more thing- a book. Rather a small and unimpressive one, really, and simply entitled-

"101 Gifts to Knit for Baby".

00000

The End


End file.
